I was sitting in the doctor's waiting room when my phone rang. It was Angela, my only daughter. Her voice sounded strange, almost cold, when she said, "Mom, we're going to Europe tomorrow. I already sold your beach house and your car."

After hanging up, I sat in the kitchen with my coffee and thought about Angela. I'd been in Europe for three weeks and hadn't heard from her at all—not a call, not a message, not even a postcard. To her, I'd ceased to exist the moment she got the money she needed.
But I knew that was going to change soon. I decided to visit the beach house. I took the bus to the coast, the same route Roberto and I had taken hundreds of times. The house was exactly as I remembered it: small, painted cream, with a terrace overlooking the sea. The new owners had put in some potted plants, but other than that, everything was the sameI sat on the opposite sidewalk and watched her for an hour. I remembered summer afternoons when Angela was little, running on the beach building sandcastles. Roberto grilling fish while I made salads in the kitchen. Angela bringing friends over, then boyfriends, then Eduardo.
All those happy moments that she had reduced to a simple business transaction. An elderly gentleman came out of the house and saw me sitting there. He approached curiously. "Are you all right, ma'am?" "Yes, thank you. I'm just reminiscing. I knew the previous owners." "Yes, I knew them very well. What a shame what happened. We were told that the elderly lady was very ill and needed to sell quickly."

We thought it was a bargain, but now it turns out the sale wasn't legal. We had to give the house back. Did you meet them personally? No, we did everything through intermediaries, but they told us the daughter was handling everything because the mother couldn't. What a sad situation. If she only knew how sad it really was, I thought, well, I'm glad you didn't lose your money.
Yes, luckily everything worked out. Although now we have to look for another house. We really liked this one. I left there with a heavy heart. It wasn't just the money that hurt. It was how easily Angela had lied about me. She had made up a story about my illness. She had used my supposed vulnerability to justify her actions

To her, I wasn't a person with feelings, but an obstacle to be removed. That night I called Jorge again. "Jorge, I need your help with something else. I want to get Roberto's car back, too." "That's going to be more difficult, Mrs. Antonia. The car was indeed in your name, but your daughter had a power of attorney that allowed her to sell it.
" "How is that possible? Apparently, you signed that power of attorney a few months after your husband died." "Don't you remember?" "There it was. The moment Ángela had started planning all of this." "I vaguely remembered signing some papers she had brought me, saying they were to facilitate the funeral and inheritance arrangements.
I was so confused by grief that I signed without reading. How naive I had been." "I understand, Jorge. Is there any way to get it back?" "We can try, but it will be more complicated. We would need to prove that you signed that power of attorney under deception or coercion." "Let's do it. I want to recover everything that was taken from me." During the following weeks, I developed a strange routine.

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