A cheap apartment.
For me.
The owner of the building she lived in.
“Safe travels, anak,” I said.
“Oh Ma, you’re so understanding. Love you!”
And she hung up.
I stared at the phone… and then—I laughed. Hard.
She had robbed me, spoken down to me, discarded me with a 2-minute call…
all while sitting on a life she thought was hers but was actually mine.
I checked my bank account.
They had deposited a pathetic sum.
That afternoon, I watched from my window as Marissa and Carlo placed their luggage into a taxi, giggling like teenagers. They didn’t even look up to wave.
When they left, I made myself some tea, spread Ernesto’s documents across the table, and made a decision.
I could sue them.
I could take everything back publicly.
But something inside me wanted to do it differently.
Quietly.
Elegantly.
The way Ernesto would’ve done.
