My mother left when I was thirteen.
She didn’t slam doors or shout accusations. She packed her suitcases quietly, kissed my father on the cheek, and walked out as if she were stepping away from a dinner party that no longer interested her.
No calls.
No letters.
No birthdays remembered or school milestones acknowledged.
For fifteen years, she vanished from my life so completely that I sometimes wondered if I had imagined her at all.
Then my father passed away.
And suddenly, she returned.
Not for me.
For money.
Madrid in November has a way of feeling heavier than usual. The sky stays low and gray, pressing down on the city as if it’s carrying secrets of its own.
I walked into the notary’s office with cold hands, though it wasn’t the weather that caused it. The room smelled faintly of paper and polished wood. Legal. Impersonal. Final.
Claudia Reynolds.
My biological mother.\
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