The morning after my birthday disaster, Mauricio stormed into the kitchen demanding I apologize to Valeria and give her fifty thousand pesos. He dismissed what she had done, calling the cake she destroyed “just a cake.”

I told him it had never been about dessert. It was my birthday, my home, and my dignity. Then he suggested I was no longer acting normally and hinted that maybe I shouldn’t be living alone.

His words sent a chill through me. Suddenly, all of Valeria’s comments about my memory, my age, and my independence made sense. She had been laying the groundwork for months.

When I returned to my room and found her belongings spread across my private bathroom, I made a decision. I packed every item into boxes, called a locksmith, and changed the locks to my bedroom and bathroom-