Silence. Only the murmur of glasses and plates from the rest of the restaurant could be heard.

“Perfect,” Javier continued, polite but sharp. “As I informed my client, this conversation is being recorded. Carmen authorized it in writing. I also have a copy of the draft power of attorney you just placed in front of her. I received it this afternoon from that very same law office, by the way. Hello, Fernando.”

The man with the glasses shifted in his chair.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered. “This is just a simple family matter.”

“A family matter,” Javier repeated, “in which three lawyers pressure a pensioner, in a restaurant, to sign a sweeping power of attorney under the explicit threat of never seeing her grandson again. In my town—and in yours—that’s called coercion. Article 172 of the Criminal Code.”

Diego leaned forward across the table.

“Don’t exaggerate. No one is coercing anyone. We just want to help Carmen avoid being cheated by someone else. It’s for her own good.”

Javier gave a short laugh.

“Of course, for her own good. That’s why clause three states that the attorney-in-fact—meaning the daughter—can sell the Lavapiés apartment without prior authorization and dispose of all her savings, take out loans, reverse mortgages, and any financial product she ‘deems appropriate.’ And all without needing to justify where the money goes. Very protective indeed.”

Lucía flushed red.

“That’s technical stuff. I don’t understand legal terms. I trusted Fernando.”

“Lucía,” Javier said, his tone changing, “a week ago you wrote to Diego: ‘If we get the power of attorney, we sell the apartment fast and get rid of the mortgage. She can manage in a cheap nursing home.’ I remember it well because I have the screenshot right here.”

Diego’s chair scraped loudly against the floor. He stared at her.

“What the hell are you saying?” he whispered through clenched teeth.

Lucía shot him a look filled with reproach and fear.

“They were just words… nothing more. I was stressed.”

I knew where that screenshot had come from. The old iPad Lucía had “given” me years ago was still linked to her account, and the WhatsApp conversations synchronized automatically. It wasn’t something I had looked for at first. But one night, after she blocked me, the messages simply appeared—as if the device itself refused to leave me out.

Fernando cleared his throat.

“Mrs. Carmen, perhaps we can redirect this. No one wants to harm you. If you wish, we can modify the power of attorney, limit it…”

“Fernando,” Javier interrupted, “I’ve known you since law school. You know perfectly well that what you were doing here is, at best, ethically questionable and, at worst, criminal. My professional advice is that you pick up that folder right now, apologize, and leave. Because if my client signs anything tonight, tomorrow you’ll have a criminal complaint waiting at the courthouse.”

The other two lawyers looked at Fernando, waiting for a decision. He weighed the situation silently for several long seconds.

“Lucía, Diego,” he finally said, “I think it would be best to talk about this another day, in the office, calmly.”

Lucía’s face tightened with wounded pride.

“No,” she snapped. “We came here to fix this today. Mom, stop making drama. We just want to make sure Marcos has a future and that you don’t waste what you have on nonsense.”

“The only thing I’ve wasted,” I replied, feeling the first spark of anger, “is years making excuses for you.”

Silence settled over the table again. I heard Javier’s voice from the phone, closer now.

“Carmen, now would be a good moment to tell them what we signed yesterday at the notary’s office,” he said. “I think they’ll find it interesting—especially them.”

Lucía frowned.

“What did you sign?” she asked, anxiety creeping into her voice.

I looked directly at my daughter—at those eyes that once belonged to a little girl who brought me drawings from school—and took a deep breath before answering.

“Yesterday,” I began, without looking away from her, “I signed a donation of the bare ownership of the Lavapiés apartment to Marcos.”

She blinked, confused.

“The what? What are you talking about?”

“That the apartment is no longer mine,” I explained. “It now belongs to your son. I keep a lifetime usufruct: I can live there until the day I die, and no one can throw me out. But the owner will be him—and only him—when he turns twenty-five.”

Diego muttered a curse under his breath. Fernando leaned forward, professional instincts kicking in.

“And who manages it in the meantime?” he asked.

“A guardianship foundation that Javier works with. They’ll manage the rent if one day I decide to move to a residence, pay for my care, and save the rest for Marcos’s education. You, Lucía, can’t touch a single euro—and neither can his father. Everything is very tightly arranged.”

My daughter’s eyes filled with tears, but they weren’t tears of sadness. They were pure rage.

“So you decided to leave me out of everything,” she said. “Your own daughter.”

“You left yourself out,” I replied with weary calm. “When you started talking about a ‘cheap nursing home’ as if I were an old piece of furniture. When you used Marcos as a bargaining chip.”

Diego tapped the table sharply.

“That’s enough of this theater. Carmen, reconsider the power of attorney. We could… coordinate it with that foundation, which has no business in this. I’m sure Javier is getting something out of it.”

“Diego,” Javier’s voice cut in from the speaker, “I’d advise you to stop insinuating crimes about fellow professionals. And while we’re at it, remember that email where you wrote, ‘once the old lady goes to a nursing home, we sell everything and move to Málaga.’ I’ve saved that one too. The game of threats can go both ways.”

Diego shut his mouth immediately.

I settled back in my chair. I felt deeply tired—but also clearer than I had in years.

“I didn’t come here to negotiate anything,” I said. “I came to see if you truly wanted to reconcile with me, Lucía. And what I found instead was a small committee ready to raid my bank account. So let me be very clear: I’m not signing anything, not today and not ever. And you’re not going to use my grandson to blackmail me again.”

Lucía leaned back as if she’d been slapped.

“You can’t take my son away from me,” she said, almost shouting. “He’s mine.”