At eight in the morning, I heard the engine of the moving truck.

The sound was unmistakable—heavy, slow, like a decision that already believed itself irreversible.

I looked out the kitchen window. The truck stopped in front of the house. Andrés got out first. Then my father-in-law. After that, my mother-in-law, wearing sunglasses and that satisfied expression of someone who thinks everything is already settled.

A knot formed in my stomach.

But this time, I wasn’t paralyzed.

The night before, I hadn’t slept. I hadn’t cried. I hadn’t argued with Andrés anymore. I did something much simpler—and far more final.

I called Raúl again.

“If someone tries to use a property with falsified documents,” he explained, “that’s no longer a family matter. That’s a crime.”

Forgery. Fraud. Identity misuse.

Words I never imagined hearing within my own marriage.

At exactly nine, the doorbell rang.

I took a deep breath and opened the door.

My mother-in-law spoke first.

“Perfect!” she said, looking past me. “We can start now. The truck brought everything from our apartment.”

Andrés avoided looking directly at me.

“Lucía,” he said, “let’s not make this harder than it needs to be.”

Behind them, the men from the truck had already started unloading boxes.

I raised my hand.