Chapter 8 - The Aftermath & The 98 Calls
Three days passed.
The storm that had decimated my former family had settled into a quiet, cold reality.
My mother, father, Vanesa, and her kids were now crowded into a cramped, two-bedroom rented apartment on the dusty outskirts of the city—a place paid for by the tiny remainder of my father’s diminished retirement fund. Roberto was currently wearing an electronic ankle monitor, awaiting his preliminary court hearing for federal tax fraud. Vanesa had been forced to sell her designer bags and jewelry on consignment apps just to pay for basic groceries.
And then, on Tuesday morning, it started.
It began at 6:00 AM while I was sitting on the sunlit veranda of Julian’s estate, watching Mateo and Lucía eat breakfast.
My phone—which had been assigned a brand-new, unlisted phone number—began to ring.
I looked at the screen. It was an unknown caller from a burner prepaid line.
I didn't answer. I declined the call.
Five seconds later, it rang again. Declined.
Ten seconds later. Declined.
By noon, the phone had rung 30 times. By 4:00 PM, it had rung 60 times. By 9:00 PM, as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, the digital counter on my screen reached an astounding number: 98 MISSED CALLS.
Ninety-eight frantic, desperate, hysterical attempts from my mother to reach the daughter she had cast aside.
Along with the calls came a relentless stream of text messages from various temporary numbers she kept buying from the corner convenience store:
Call 12: “Clara please answer! Your father’s back hurts from this terrible bed!” Call 34: “I’m sorry! I’m begging you on my knees! Please forgive me!” Call 58: “Vanesa is yelling at me! Everyone is blaming me! You have to save us!” Call 79: “I will sleep on the floor! I will lie on the cold tiles if you just let us come back! Please Clara!” Call 98: “Daughter... please. I have nothing left.”
I held the phone in my hand, staring at the 98th message.
In the past, receiving even a single crying message from my mother would have sent me into a spiral of anxiety, forcing me to drop everything to fix her life. But as I looked at those 98 calls, I felt a deep, profound sense of peace.
The 98 calls weren't proof of her love for me; they were proof of her terror at finally having to face the consequences of her own cruelty. She didn't miss me—she missed the money, the comfort, and the endless tolerance I had provided.
Julian walked onto the veranda, carrying two glasses of sparkling water. He sat down beside me, glancing at the glowing screen of my phone.
“Ninety-eight?” he asked softly.
“Ninety-eight,” I confirmed, turning the screen off and placing the phone face-down on the glass table.
“Are you going to answer?”
I looked across the lawn. Mateo was running around with a toy airplane, making silly engine noises, his laughter ringing clear and bright in the evening air. Lucía was sitting on a wooden bench, reading a book, her face serene and unbothered. There were no sleeping bags on cold floors here. There was no shame, no fear, no walking on eggshells.
I looked at Julian and smiled—a real, genuine smile that reached all the way to my soul.
May you like
“No,” I said softly. “I’m done answering.”
I picked up the phone, tapped the settings menu, and permanently changed my number once more. Then, I threw the old SIM card into a small decorative dish on the table, closing that chapter of my life forever.
