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.”

“She’s not under arrest,” one officer said. “But this will need to be resolved in court.”

The next morning, I called a lawyer—Javier Calderón, a criminal lawyer in Madrid. I forwarded everything to him. He listened and asked for one thing: patience. Meanwhile, the investigation expanded. My mother’s complaint had opened a door that had been closed for a long time: the bank accounts.

It was revealed that my mother had withdrawn funds for months to cover personal expenses and had used the joint account as collateral for a loan in my sister Paula’s name—who was still a minor. The amount exceeded the 2,100 euros she was demanding for the birthday party. The court froze the accounts and summoned my mother to testify.

The university called me to offer a paid internship on a European project. I accepted. I changed my routine, my routes, my conversations. But the tension remained. One day, when I came home, I found a note in my mailbox, in handwriting I knew well: “This isn’t over.” I called the police, and they filed a report.

At the courthouse, my mother gave a disjointed account of events. She contradicted herself repeatedly. My sister Paula cried when they explained that she was listed as a debtor. No one had informed her. I didn’t even look at her.

The judge dismissed the complaint against me for lack of merit and opened an investigation for misappropriation. There was no drama. Only dates, figures, and accountability.

A few months later, an agreement was reached: repayment of the money, interest, and cancellation of the loan. The added condition: no contact. I agreed. I signed without hesitation.

Continue reading…