At graduation, I searched the entire auditorium to see if I recognized anyone. A few days later, my mother texted: “I need $2,100 for your sister’s birthday party.”

No congratulations. No “Mom’s so proud of you.”
Just one sentence from my mother:

“I need 2,100 euros for your sister’s 15th birthday.”

I stared at the message, the words blurring as I thought of the years I’d worked night shifts through school, the meals I skipped, the calls that went unanswered, the times I needed help and learned not to ask for it.

I sent her a euro.

In the transfer note, I wrote:

“Happy birthday.”

Then, I called my landlord and had the lock on my small Vallecas apartment changed. For the first time, I believed the noise might finally stop.

But it didn’t.

That night, someone pounded on my door—not a polite knock, but a series of hard, forceful knocks. My chest tightened as I peered through the peephole.

Two police officers.

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