I looked at him. “The person who knows who owns this house.”

His mouth twitched. “I own this house.”

“No, Andrés,” I said. “You just live here.”

For the first time, the confidence slipped. It didn’t disappear — men like him don’t surrender a room quickly — but it slipped.

Valeria looked at me as if I’d spoken a language she’d forgotten she understood. “Mom… what’s going on?”

I moved closer to her. “Your father and I protected this house for you,” I said. “We never wanted you to feel like it was a debt, so we didn’t make the paperwork part of your daily life.”