She stood in the narrow hallway, the weight of their voices pressing through the door, but not through her. Rosa’s sharp complaints and Javier’s low grumbling sounded like echoes from a life she’d already buried. Their absence during her surgery had carved a permanent truth into her: some people only remember you when they need something. She cracked the door, not as a daughter pleading, but as a woman deciding.

Their demands landed like dull thuds—money, explanations, access, entitlement wrapped in false concern. She didn’t argue their version of history or list the nights she’d cried alone. She simply named what they’d never given and what she would no longer offer. Love without showing up, love without sacrifice, was counterfeit. When they finally turned away, rage sputtering, the silence they left behind felt like oxygen. From the living room, Lucas and Mateo’s laughter rose, fragile and bright. She walked toward it, feeling, at last, that “family” could mean fewer people and more peace.