Chapter 2 - THE VULTURE CIRCLE
The news of Ernesto’s passing traveled with astonishing speed through the family grapevine—not because his biological children were overcome with grief, but because they assumed the house and whatever meager personal belongings remained were finally up for grabs.
Within less than twenty-four hours, the quiet, peaceful atmosphere of the small home was shattered.
By ten o'clock the following morning, three of Ernesto’s children had arrived.
Mateo—my ex-husband—strode into the living room wearing an expensive suit that stretched tight over his beer belly, sporting a gold watch and an arrogant, aggressive scowl. He didn't offer me a single word of condolence, nor did he ask how his father’s final hours had been. He walked past me as if I were a ghost, his eyes darting around the living room, evaluating the worn furniture, the small television, and the structure of the house.
Behind him came Javier, the brother from Monterrey, wearing slicked-back hair and carrying a leather briefcase, constantly typing on his phone. Beatriz arrived twenty minutes later in a shiny luxury crossover vehicle, her face buried behind dark sunglasses, making dramatic sighing sounds as she fanned herself with a fashion magazine, complaining about the dusty neighborhood.
Sofia, the youngest, didn't bother showing up at all, sending a text message stating she was "too emotionally devastated" to travel, though she explicitly asked Javier to ensure her share of any inheritance was secured.
I stood near the small dining table, my eyes red and swollen from crying all night, wearing a simple black dress. Beside my chair sat a small canvas tote bag containing my personal clothing and the ragged, heavy cushion Ernesto had handed me before his death. I had kept the cushion glued to my side ever since he passed.
Mateo slammed his leather car keys onto the wooden table, turning to face me with a cold, sneering expression.
"Alright, Lucía," Mateo barked, folding his arms over his chest. "The funeral home said the basic burial services are taken care of from dad's small life insurance policy he set up thirty years ago. So let's get down to business. We need you out of the house by the end of the week."
I stared at him, stunned by his sheer, sociopathic lack of basic human decency.
"Your father just died yesterday, Mateo," I said, my voice low and steady despite the rage building in my chest. "His body was moved to the chapel four hours ago. And the first thing you say to me is to throw me into the street?"
"Let's be realistic here, Lucía," Beatriz chimed in, stepping forward while carefully avoiding a scuffed patch on the rug with her high heels. "You've been living here rent-free for over a decade. You used my father's house as your personal shelter after Mateo left you. You got a free roof over your head for twelve years!"
"Free?!" I shouted, the dam of twelve years of suppressed frustration bursting open. "A free roof?! I worked twelve hours a day stitching dresses to pay for his blood pressure medicine! I washed his clothes! I cooked every meal he ate! I changed his sheets when he was too weak to move! Where were you, Beatriz?! Where were you when he was crying in the middle of the night from arthritis pain?! Where were you when he had a high fever three winters ago?!"
Beatriz flushed with embarrassment, but her face quickly hardened into a bitter, condescending mask.
"You did that because you chose to," Beatriz snapped. "Nobody asked you to play the martyr, Lucía. You're not his daughter. You were his daughter-in-law, and you aren't even married to Mateo anymore! You have zero legal connection to this family, zero blood relation, and zero rights to this property."
Javier stepped between us, holding up his hands like a smug corporate arbitrator.
"Look, let's keep this professional," Javier said, opening his leather briefcase and pulling out a sheath of papers. "This house may be old, but the land value in this suburb has gone up significantly over the last five years due to the new commercial bypass road. We spoke to a local real estate agent this morning. We can sell this lot for roughly eighty thousand dollars. Divided three ways—or four ways with Sofia—it gives us a nice lump sum."
"And what about dad's other assets?" Mateo asked, leaning against the doorway, looking closely at Javier. "Did he have any cash hidden away? An old savings account? He was always paranoid about banks."
"We checked his old metal lockbox in the closet," Javier replied, shaking his head. "There was nothing inside except old electric bills, his marriage certificate from 1978, and three hundred pesos in cash. The old man was completely broke."
Mateo scoffed, shaking his head with disgust. "Unbelievable. Worked his whole life and left us with a crumbling plaster house and three hundred pesos. Typical."
Hearing them speak about their deceased father—a man who had starved his own soul to give them a future—with such cold, transactional contempt made my blood run cold. They didn't see a father who had loved them; they saw a minor financial dividend to be liquidated as quickly as possible.
Mateo turned his sharp gaze back to me, eyeing the canvas tote bag sitting near my feet. His eyes locked onto the ragged, misshapen cushion peeking out from the top of the bag.
"What's that?" Mateo asked, pointing a thick finger at the cushion.
"It's nothing," I said, stepping between him and the bag. "It's just an old cushion from his bed."
Mateo chuckled maliciously, stepping forward and reaching into the bag before I could stop him. He yanked the ugly, patched-up cushion out, holding it up by one torn corner with two fingers, as if it were covered in bacteria.
"What is this trash?" Mateo laughed, showing it to Javier and Beatriz. "Look at this! The old man spent his final hours clutching a piece of garbage! Look at these hideous patches. It smells like damp wool."
"Give it back to me, Mateo!" I shouted, reaching for it. "He gave that to me before he died!"
"Why?" Mateo sneered, holding it out of my reach, his face twisting into a mocking grin. "What, did you think he hid a secret stash of gold coins inside this dirty old rag? Did you think the old man was going to make you rich for playing nursemaid?"
Beatriz laughed loudly, shaking her head. "Oh, Lucía... you really are naive, aren't you? You thought he was going to leave you a grand fortune! It's a worthless piece of junk, just like everything else in this house."
Mateo tossed the heavy cushion forcefully at my chest. I caught it securely in my arms, pulling it tight against my body, feeling the dense, strangely firm center of the cushion pressing through the rough canvas.
"Take it," Mateo sneered, flicking his wrist toward the front door. "Take your little souvenir and get out. The locks are being changed at five o'clock today. If your stuff is still here by six, it goes into the dumpster on the corner."
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I looked at the three of them—these cold, empty human beings who shared Ernesto’s blood but possessed not a single drop of his nobility or spirit.
I didn't argue. I didn't cry in front of them. I picked up my tote bag, clutched Ernesto’s ragged cushion tightly against my ribs, and walked out the front door into the bright, blinding midday sun, leaving the vultures to pick over the bones of a house that had lost its heart.
