I found my mother-in-law measuring the guest room with the pink tape measure she always carried in her purse.
She was so focused she didn’t notice me standing in the doorway. She was muttering numbers under her breath, as if she could already picture her furniture inside.

“María,” she said without even greeting me, “we’ll need to knock down this wall. When we move in next month, we’ll need more space.”I froze. I looked at the tape measure, then the wall, then at her confident smile — as if what she’d just said were perfectly normal.

“When we move in?” I asked slowly. “Who exactly is moving in, Pilar?”

She looked up, annoyed, like I had interrupted something important.

“Your father-in-law and I, of course. Javier told us that next month this will officially be our home. We’ve already hired an architect. With a couple of walls removed and a proper renovation, it’ll be perfect for our retirement.”

A buzzing filled my ears. This beach house in Villafuerte was the only thing my father left me. He willed it to me alone before he died. I’d spent half my childhood here, surrounded by the smell of salt air and coffee from his old moka pot.

“This house is mine,” I said quietly.

Pilar gave a short, patronizing laugh.

“Oh, María. I know the house was in your name, but you’re married under community property. What’s yours belongs to Javier. Don’t be dramatic.”

The familiar phrase stung — that “don’t be dramatic” I’d heard for years.

“Where’s Javier?” I asked.

“On the terrace with the architect,” she replied. “Come. You should start getting used to it.”

And every time the wind hits the shore in Villafuerte, I feel the house standing firm on its foundation — just like I do.