I swallowed, stood up, and opened the bottom drawer. It was full of neatly folded sheets. At the very back, almost pressed against the wood, I saw a dark green envelope with no sender. My name was written across it in firm letters:

“LUCÍA MARTÍN GARCÍA.”

I picked it up carefully. It was heavy. My heart pounded in my ears.

“Open it,” she whispered.

I tore the edge open. Inside was a thick stack of photocopies, several original documents with notary stamps, and a small black USB drive clipped together.

The first page read in capital letters:

“FOR WHEN I DECIDE TO COLLECT WHAT THEY OWE ME.”

Just then, behind me, the front door lock turned sharply.

The metallic sound cut through me. I quickly closed the envelope and slipped the USB back inside, hiding it beneath the folded sheets just as a shrill voice echoed down the hallway.

“Lucía? Are you back already?” It was Pilar.

I took a deep breath and stepped into the hallway, closing the bedroom door behind me.

Pilar dropped grocery bags onto the kitchen floor without even looking at me. Her hair was pulled into a hurried bun and her lipstick was smudged.

“She’s been unbearable all day,” she muttered. “Good thing you’re here now. I have a life, you know? I can’t always be taking care of that woman.”

“She’s very sick,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “We need to call an ambulance.”

Pilar snorted.

“Not again. If we take her in, they’ll admit her and then we’ll have to pay for caregivers, medicine, everything. That old woman costs more than a child.”

Anger rose from my stomach.

“She’s your family,” I snapped.

“She’s a nuisance,” she replied without blinking. “And she’s not even my mother—she’s your father-in-law’s mother. I’ve done more than enough.”

I didn’t waste another second. I went to the living room, grabbed my phone, and dialed emergency services.

While I spoke with the operator, Pilar watched me like I had betrayed her.

Minutes later, sirens wailed outside. Neighbors leaned out over the courtyard. Paramedics rushed in, examined Dolores quickly, and exchanged serious looks.

“We need to move her now,” one of them said.

They carried her down on a stretcher. I climbed into the ambulance. Pilar stayed on the sidewalk, arms crossed.

“We’ll come later,” she said. “I have to drop some things at my sister’s house.”

At Hospital Clínico, the smell of disinfectant tickled my nose. They took Dolores into emergency care while I waited alone, the green envelope pressed inside my bag.

When I finally sat down, I opened it again.

There were bank statements showing accounts far larger than a small pension. Property deeds for an apartment in Lavapiés and another in Benidorm. And a recent will, signed two months earlier before a notary in Chamberí.