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.”

I opened the door with shaking hands.

“Sofía Martín?” one of them asked.

“Yes.”

“We need to ask you a few questions. It’s best we do this now.”

They told me my mother had gone to the police station that afternoon. She’d accused me of fraud—claiming I’d stolen money from the joint account. She said I’d threatened and humiliated her. She showed them selective screenshots—including the one-euro transfer—which she used to paint me as cruel and mocking.

“One of the officers added, “While reviewing the bank transactions, we uncovered something unrelated to you… but it does involve your family.”

I let them in, and they sat at my kitchen table, beneath a bare lightbulb. They opened a blue folder containing statements, dates, and names I knew well. My younger sister was listed as the beneficiary of an account I’d funded for years “for studies.” There was almost nothing left.

I understood then that the complaint wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment outburst. It was a strategy. And I knew, right then, that this night wouldn’t bring peace—it would mark the start of something that would change everything.

The blue folder lay open, raw and revealing, like a wound. The officers asked me to explain my financial relationship with my family. I answered calmly, telling them that since I was nineteen, I’d been sending money every month, and that my name was listed as a joint account holder “for convenience,” but I had never taken any money without notifying them. I showed them my transfers, my receipts, my unanswered emails.

Continue reading…