That was when I remembered the night he had asked to use the bathroom during dinner and stayed gone too long.

He had not gone to the bathroom.

He had stolen our key.

Nora walked through the living room as if she owned it. She opened cabinets, moved cups, and sent Armando toward the guest room with clothes on hangers.

Then she entered our bedroom.

That was the moment something inside me snapped.

Mateo called her.

She answered sweetly, as if nothing had happened.

“Hello, my love. How is your trip?”

“Mom,” Mateo said. “Get out of my house.”

Silence.

“What are you talking about?”

“Nora,” I said, leaning toward the phone, “we’re watching you.”

On camera, her face turned toward the device.

For once, she looked surprised.

“You have cameras inside?” she snapped. “That’s disgusting. Such an invasion of privacy.”

“You entered our house without permission,” I said.

“I used a key.”

“A key we never gave you,” Mateo replied.

He gave her one hour to leave.

Nora immediately turned herself into the victim.

“You would call the police on your own mother?”

Mateo went still. I could see years of guilt rising in him—the boy who had been trained to believe his mother’s problems were always his responsibility.

Then he straightened.

“Yes,” he said. “If you don’t leave, I’ll call them.”

But Nora did not pack.

She unpacked.