My mother locked my children in the freezing basement of my own villa in Pozuelo—just to give their bedroom to my nephew.
What she didn’t know was that every hallway, every door, every stair in that house was covered by cameras.
And that the eviction had already begunMy name is Inés. I’m thirty-nine years old, and until that moment, I truly believed I had built a flawless life. I had climbed to a senior position at a financial firm on Paseo de la Castellana. I earned more in a year than my parents had ever imagined possible. I had two children—my entire world—and a modern villa in Pozuelo de Alarcón, one of the safest, most exclusive areas in Madrid.
I had even bought that house with a specific purpose: to give my parents dignity after the bank seized the small apartment they had lived in their entire lives in Carabanchel.
I thought I was doing everything right.
I thought I was honoring my family while protecting my own.
While I was managing multimillion-euro portfolios and closing deals that moved markets, my parents were quietly moving my children’s clothes, toys, and schoolbooks out of their rooms.
Downstairs.
Into the basement.
Cold. Damp. Unfinished.
Why?
Because my brother’s son—the golden grandson—needed a “proper bedroom.”
When I found my children sitting on the concrete floor, shaking, their lips tinged purple from the cold, my mother didn’t apologize. She didn’t even look uncomfortable.Three weeks have passed. The house is quiet. We’ve baked muffins. For the first time, this house feels like home.
I learned that you can’t choose the family you’re born into, but you have a duty to protect the one you create.
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