Laura’s uncle, Ramón, suggested improvising a cold dinner with what was left in the pantry. His wife organized an “indoor picnic,” as she called it: they spread blankets on the living room floor, lit (safe) candles, and distributed bread, cheese, fruit, and crackers. Far from being a disaster, the scene took on a warm and almost intimate atmosphere.
The children, fascinated by the darkness, invented games. One of the teenagers played guitar. The conversations, without screens in between, were more sincere than usual. In the middle of the night, Laura’s mother—who had always been critical—sat down next to me and said:
— “I admire you. If I were you, I would have fired everyone days ago.”
I laughed.
— “I would have liked to do it too, believe me. But it wouldn’t have worked.”
She sighed.
” Laura sometimes doesn’t think about what organizing something like this entails. But I see you handled everything with enviable calm.”It was the first time I felt that my effort was truly valued.
The electricity returned at dawn, but something in the atmosphere had already changed. The people who had arrived as if the house were a different hotel from their own began to act with genuine consideration. They left the kitchen clean without me even noticing, went for walks in small groups so as not to overcrowd the living room, and a cousin even volunteered to fix a loose hinge on the patio door.
One night, a few days before her departure, Laura approached me while I was watering the plants.
— “I know it was an abuse to have so many of you come. I didn’t think about how difficult it would be for you.”
— “I know. But I also learned that if I don’t set boundaries, no one will set them for me.”
She lowered her gaze, embarrassed.
— “Thank you for not kicking us out on the first day.”
“ I was close,” I replied with a half-smile. “But I’m glad I didn’t.”
On their last day, before leaving, the whole family pitched in to make the cottage spotless. They picked up trash, cleaned windows, swept the yard, and even left a box of groceries “for when we get back,” they said.
When the cars finally drove away and silence returned to the valley, I sat on the porch, exhausted but satisfied. I had survived. More than that: I had earned respect without having to shout, and I had proven—mostly to myself—that I could handle any storm, even one made up of twenty people.
I looked at the cottage.
For the first time since I bought it, I felt it was truly my home.
My space.
And that, after that experience, no one would ever invade it again without my consent.
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