Chapter 4 - THE HOUSE IN LAS LOMAS
I did not return to the cemetery that afternoon.
The doctors insisted I go to the hospital for monitoring because my blood pressure had climbed dangerously high.
For a moment, guilt nearly swallowed me.
A wife should stand at the burial.
A widow should watch the earth close.
But Arturo leaned down beside my hospital bed and said, “Julián’s first instruction was your safety. Do not honor him by disobeying him.”
So I let Marisol stay with me while Father Andrés completed the burial privately.
Arturo attended.
So did two police officers.
Doña Teresa was present but kept away from the coffin.
Fernanda was not allowed near the casket, the ring, or me.
That evening, from the hospital room, I watched the news break.
Funeral dispute in Mendoza family.
Video will played before burial.
Questions arise over estate documents.
By midnight, it had become worse.
Sources allege forged paternity test.
Mendoza Axis succession in legal review.
Widow named trustee of major family holdings.
I turned off the television.
I did not want headlines.
I wanted my husband.
At 2:00 a.m., when the baby kicked hard beneath my ribs, I whispered, “Your father loved you.”
That was all I could manage.
The next morning, Arturo took me home under security escort.
Home.
The Las Lomas house looked the same from the outside.
Stone walls.
Jacaranda trees.
Tall windows.
The balcony where Julián used to stand with coffee.
But at the front gate stood three black SUVs.
Doña Teresa had arrived before us.
Of course she had.
She stood on the steps wearing black silk and fury.
Beside her were Fernanda, Rodrigo, two private guards, and a locksmith.
My hands went cold.
Arturo stepped out of the car first.
The guards moved toward him.
Behind Arturo, Detective Reyes’s unmarked vehicle pulled in.
The guards stopped.
Doña Teresa lifted a document.
“This house belongs to the Mendoza family. She is not entering.”
Arturo took the paper, glanced at it, and handed it to Detective Reyes.
“Forged occupancy claim. Add it to the packet.”
Doña Teresa’s face tightened.
“I am his mother.”
“And Lucía is his widow,” Arturo said. “The legal owner of record through trust transfer. You were formally notified yesterday.”
Fernanda pointed at me.
“She bewitched him.”
I was too tired to answer.
Marisol did it for me.
“My sister taught children to read for twelve years. If that is witchcraft, Mexico needs more witches.”
Even Detective Reyes looked down for a second.
Doña Teresa snapped at the locksmith.
“Open it.”
The locksmith did not move.
Arturo said, “Sir, if you touch that lock, you become part of a criminal complaint.”
The locksmith packed his tools and left without a word.
That was the first time I felt the shift.
Money could buy arrogance.
It could not always buy willingness to be arrested.
Doña Teresa stepped closer to me.
“You think papers make you family?”
I looked at her.
“No. Julián did.”
Her face twisted.
For a second, I thought she might slap me.
Detective Reyes stepped forward.
Doña Teresa stopped.
Arturo handed her a formal notice.
“You and Fernanda are barred from entering this property. You are barred from contacting Lucía directly. You are barred from interfering with the trust, company transition, medical records, household staff, bank accounts, vehicles, and security systems. Any violation will be documented.”
Fernanda laughed bitterly.
“You cannot erase us.”
Arturo looked at her.
“You erased yourselves when you attacked a pregnant widow at her husband’s funeral.”
I walked past them.
Every step felt heavier than the last.
Inside, the house smelled like Julián’s coffee and the lilies someone had sent.
I made it to the kitchen before my knees gave out.
Marisol caught me.
I sat on the floor where Julián had once sat assembling a crib at midnight because he refused to read instructions.
I pressed both hands over my mouth and screamed without sound.
That was grief.
Not elegant.
Not cinematic.
A silent animal inside my chest.
Arturo waited until I could breathe again.
Then he placed a small sealed drive on the table.
“Julián left this for you privately.”
I stared at it.
“Not yet.”
He nodded.
“When you are ready.”
I was not ready for my husband to speak to me from the dead again.
Not that day.
May you like
That day, I let Marisol help me to bed.
That night, I slept on Julián’s side because mine smelled too much like waiting.
