On Tuesday morning, while I was serving my children breakfast in the kitchen, I looked out the window and saw my sister-in-law Lucía driving off in my car.

My car. A black Volvo XC90, purchased two years earlier with my grandmother’s inheritance, registered under my name, and insured under my name as well. I assumed Javier might have lent it to her for something urgent, so I stayed quiet. But when he walked into the house—calm, holding his coffee, tie slightly crooked—I asked him directly:

Where is my car?

He didn’t even lift his eyes from his phone.

—I gave it to Lucía. She needs it more than you.

For a moment, I thought I had heard him wrong.

—Sorry?

Then he finally looked at me, wearing that same tired half-smile he used whenever he wanted to dismiss me as overreacting.