My daughter-in-law threw me out, sneering, “Go d!e on the street.” I looked at her calmly and said, “Tomorrow, a gift will arrive.” The next day, her cruelty came back to her like poison.

“Cristina,” I said calmly. At my age, I had learned that raising one’s voice never brought dignity back. “David knows about this?”

She didn’t hesitate. “He agrees. We talked last night. We’re tired of supporting an old man who causes nothing but problems.”

Problems.

I looked at her, searching her face for irony or shame. There was none.

“What problems have I caused?” I asked quietly.

She laughed. “You exist. That’s the problem. This house is too small. Three bedrooms. David needs an office to work from home and make real money—for our children. Not to shelter a useless old man.”

The words burned, but they didn’t surprise me. Some people reveal their true selves only when they believe they hold power over you.

“I understand,” I said.

That seemed to unsettle her. “That’s it? You understand?”

“Yes,” I replied. “You want me gone. I’ll go.”

Her mouth tightened. “Good. You have until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I asked. “I need at least a week to find a place.”

“I don’t care. Tomorrow—or I’ll call the police and say you threatened me. Who do you think they’ll believe? A senile old man, or me?”

Something shifted in me then. Not anger—clarity.
“I was just thinking,” I said softly, “that a gift will arrive at your door tomorrow.”

She frowned. “A gift? Are you insane?”

“You’ll see. Something special.”

She scoffed, muttered something about my mind finally slipping, and stormed off. Her heels echoed across the wooden floor I had repaired myself the year before.

I sat on the edge of the narrow bed. This room had been my refuge since my wife Rosa died and David insisted I move in.

“You shouldn’t live alone, Dad,” he had said. “We’re family.”

Family. A word that means safety—until it doesn’t.

I pulled out my old phone and dialed a number I had saved months earlier.

“Mr. Ruiz? This is Guillermo Santos. It’s time to activate our plan.”

Everything was ready.

That evening, I packed what little I owned. Clothes. Tools. Books. Photos of Rosa. A lifetime reduced to two suitcases and three boxes.

David came home around seven. He never knocked. I heard laughter from the kitchen, glasses clinking. Celebration, perhaps.

At eight, my grandson Pablo tapped gently on my door.

“Grandpa,” he whispered. “Mom says you’re leaving.”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s time I find my own place.”

His eyes filled. “Did I do something wrong?”

My heart cracked. “No, champ. This has nothing to do with you.”
“Will I see you again?”

“Of course,” I lied. I knew Cristina would make sure otherwise.

The next morning, a moving truck arrived. I had rented a tiny studio in a damp neighborhood—€450 a month, all my pension could manage.

Cristina watched with satisfaction as my things were loaded.

David appeared briefly. “Dad… this is for the best.”

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