Friday arrives hot and mean.
The notary’s office is not really an office so much as a room behind a furniture store two neighborhoods over, the kind of place that smells like dust, cheap polish, and favors too dirty for daylight. Damián dresses better than he has all week. Teresa wears pearls. Verónica brings lipstick and boredom, as if she expects the whole thing to take twenty minutes and end with lunch.
You wear Lidia’s blue blouse.
The one with the tiny tear near the cuff where Damián once yanked too hard. Alma told you to wear it if you could. Judges, she said, do not always notice symbolism, but juries do, and cameras notice everything. The recorder is sewn into the lining of your purse.
The notary, señor Mijares, is sweating before anyone sits.
He recognizes greed the way butchers recognize weight. There are papers already set out on the desk. Transfer language. Guardianship contingencies. A blank medical addendum meant to support the “instability” route if needed. You keep your hands folded in your lap and let them think the room still belongs to them.
Damián starts the performance.
He calls you mi amor with too much sweetness. Says you’ve been under stress. Tells Mijares you’re emotional since the child’s birth and the “family history” worries everyone. Teresa adds that you’re delicate. Verónica says you get confused around paperwork. They layer it carefully, as if they’ve done this kind of thing in smaller ways for years.
Then Damián slides the pen toward you.
“Sign here.”
You pick it up.
Your hand does not shake. That bothers him immediately. He notices, then smiles harder, as if he can erase the feeling in his own gut by widening his mouth. You lean over the page, and instead of signing, you ask the first question.
“So after this,” you say softly, “the lot belongs to you?”
The notary glances up.
Damián laughs. “Temporarily.”
“And if I say no?”
His eyes flash.
Teresa hisses your name under her breath. Verónica rolls her eyes. Mijares shifts in his chair because now there is friction in the room, and friction is bad for dirty paperwork.
Damián leans closer.
“If you say no,” he says, voice dropping into its real shape, “then we do it the other way. You sign the medical recommendation, and by Monday you’ll be somewhere with bars on the windows, your daughter will stay with my family, and your crazy sister’s file will make the whole thing easy.”
That is enough.
You set down the pen.
Then you straighten slowly, look him directly in the eyes for the first time in a week, and say in your own voice, “You always did talk too much when you thought women were trapped.”
