My name is Lucía Navarro. I’m thirty-one years old, and I was thrown out of my parents’ house just twenty-four hours after having a C-section.

Not my own apartment—but theirs, in Getafe, where I was recovering because the place I shared with my husband, Mateo Ruiz, was still under repair after a major water leak had wrecked the bedroom.

Mateo had gone out to the pharmacy to buy antibiotics, gauze, and the postpartum supplies the hospital had prescribed. I was in my old room, moving slowly because every step pulled at my stitches, while my newborn daughter, Alba, slept quietly in her bassinet.

That’s when my mother spoke.

“Your sister is coming this afternoon with her baby,” she said flatly. “She needs this room more than you do.”

At first, I thought it was a cruel joke.

My younger sister, Noelia, had always been the center of everything. Still, I never imagined my own mother would say something like that to me—especially when I had just undergone surgery.

“Mom, I can barely stand,” I told her. “Let me rest until Mateo gets back. Then we’ll figure something out.”

She didn’t even blink.

“You’re moving just fine. Start packing.”