Part 1: The Day She Came Back for the Wrong Reason

My mother left when I was thirteen.

She didn’t slam doors or shout accusations. She packed her suitcases quietly, kissed my father on the cheek, and walked out as if she were stepping away from a dinner party that no longer interested her.

She never looked back.

No calls.
No letters.
No birthdays remembered or school milestones acknowledged.

For fifteen years, she vanished from my life so completely that I sometimes wondered if I had imagined her at all.

Then my father passed away.

And suddenly, she returned.

Not for me.

For money.

Madrid in November has a way of feeling heavier than usual. The sky stays low and gray, pressing down on the city as if it’s carrying secrets of its own.

I walked into the notary’s office with cold hands, though it wasn’t the weather that caused it. The room smelled faintly of paper and polished wood. Legal. Impersonal. Final.

That was where I saw her.

Claudia Reynolds.

My biological mother.

She stood near the window, perfectly composed, as if she had stepped out of a magazine. High heels. A tailored dress. Perfume so expensive it arrived before she did.

She turned when she heard the door.

“Marcus,” she said, smiling wide. “You’ve grown so much.”

I stopped a few steps away.

“Claudia,” I replied evenly. “There’s no need to pretend.”

For a brief moment, something flickered in her eyes. Then the smile returned, practiced and polished. She moved closer, arms half-open, waiting for a hug that never came.

We sat down side by side.

She crossed her legs with elegance, already acting as if she belonged there. As if fifteen years of silence could be erased by showing up well dressed.

The notary, Julián Ortega, entered with a thick folder under his arm.

“We can begin,” he said.

Claudia straightened her posture immediately. I could almost see her counting figures in her head, already imagining what she believed would be hers.

Julián cleared his throat.

“Mr. Andrés Varela left very clear instructions regarding his estate.”

Claudia exhaled softly, satisfied.

“However,” he continued, “the inheritance will not be distributed immediately.”

Her fingers paused on the armrest.

“Not immediately?” she asked. “Why not?”

“It is conditional,” Julián replied.

She frowned, clearly annoyed.

“Conditional on what?”

Julián glanced at me briefly before answering.