My wife’s son stole my room
. “You’re crazy, Adrian! That’s my room!” Vicente López stood in the doorway, clutching the keys in his hand, unable to believe what he was seeing.
“She was yours, Uncle Vicente,” the boy didn’t even look up from his phone, stretched out on the couch. “Now she’s mine. Mom said so.”
“What, Mom, what, what?” Vicente exploded. “I’m not your uncle! And where’s my bed? My things?”
Adrian shrugged, without taking his eyes off the screen.
—The bed is on the balcony, the things are in boxes. Mom says you have plenty of room there.
Vicente felt the floor disappear beneath his feet. He had lived in this apartment for twenty years; that room was his refuge, his fortress. And now an eighteen-year-old brat ruled as if it were his own.
“Rocio!” he shouted, heading for the kitchen. “Rocio, come here right now!”
His wife came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron. Not a hint of embarrassment on her face.
—What’s wrong, Vicente? Why are you screaming?
“What’s going on?” Vicente couldn’t believe it. “Your son invaded my room! My things are on the balcony! What kind of atrocity is this?”
“Vicente, calm down,” Rocío spoke softly but firmly. “Adrián has entered university, he needs a place to study. You can sleep on the balcony; I set it up, it’s cozy.”
“On the balcony?” Vicente couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Rocio, have you gone crazy? This is my apartment! I’m registered here, I live here!”
“Our apartment,” she corrected him. “And Adrian lives here now, too. Forever.”
Vicente slumped into a chair. When he married Rocío two years ago, she told him she had a son living with his father. The boy came over some weekends, quietly, without bothering anyone. He even thought they might get along.
“Why didn’t you tell me anything?” he asked in a tired voice.
“What was there to say?” Rocío sat down across from him. “Adrián is older; he needs his space. You can adapt.”
“Adapting…” Vicente repeated. “Rocio, I work shifts, I need to sleep well. It’s cold on the balcony in the winter and hot in the summer.”
—It’s okay, you’ll get used to it. Adrian is a good boy, he won’t bother you.
Vicente looked at his wife. Two years ago, she had been his salvation. After years of loneliness, following the divorce from his first wife, who had taken their daughter to another city, Rocío was a breath of fresh air. A beautiful forty-five-year-old woman, an accountant, good-natured, and a wonderful cook. They met in the park, where she was feeding the pigeons and he was reading the newspaper on a bench.
“I have a son,” she told him then. “He lives with his father, but he comes to see me sometimes.”
“It’s no problem,” Vicente replied. “I like children.”
And it was true. He barely saw his daughter Laura; his ex didn’t make their relationship any easier. At first, Adrián seemed like a good guy: polite, calm.
“Look, Rocío,” she tried to speak calmly. “Couldn’t we organize the space differently? A sofa bed in the living room for Adrián, and my room will still be mine.”
“No,” she denied. “Adrián is studying; he needs silence. You just watch TV.”
“I just watch TV…” Something inside Vicente snapped. “Rocio, I’m tired when I get home from work. I need a proper rest.”
—You’re selfish, Vicente. You only think about yourself. I have a son, I have to take care of him.
Vicente got up and went to the balcony. His bed was there, next to stacked boxes. The balcony was glass-enclosed, but the humidity was noticeable. He sat on the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands.
That evening, Adrián went out to dinner. Vicente was at the table, drinking coffee.
“Hey, Adrian,” he said calmly. “Let’s talk like adults. Maybe there’s another solution.”
“What’s the solution?” Adrian opened the fridge and took out a yogurt. “Now I have my room, you have yours. Everything is just right.”
“My room is on the balcony,” Vicente pointed out.
—So what? This way you and Mom have more space.
—Adrián, I understand that you’re in college, it’s great. But you can’t treat people like this. We could talk about it, find a compromise.
“What?” Adrian smiled. “You’re not family. Mom is Mom, you’re just her husband. Temporarily.”
“Temporarily?” Vicente tensed.
“Do you think it’s forever?” Adrian shrugged. “Mom’s young and pretty. Maybe she’ll find someone better.”
Vicente felt the blood rush to his face, but he held back. He didn’t want to fight.
—Adrián, I respect your mother and you. But this is my apartment.
“Come on,” the boy yawned. “It’s not yours anymore. Mom says that when you get married, everything is shared.”
“We got married in my apartment,” Vicente recalled.
—So what? The law is the same for everyone.
Vicente understood there was no dialogue. The boy was steadfast and wouldn’t budge.
The next day, Vicente spoke with Rocío again.
—Rocio, seriously. I can’t sleep on the balcony. Is there no other option?
“Vicente, stop complaining.” She didn’t even look at him, busy in the kitchen. “Adrián is a student; he needs good conditions. You’re a man, put up with it.”
“Hold on?” Vicente exploded. “Rocio, I work at the power plant, it’s serious work. If I don’t sleep, I can make mistakes, and that’s dangerous.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” he stirred the soup. “Sleeping on the balcony isn’t that bad.”
—It’s damp! And cold! Why should I crowd onto the balcony in my own apartment?
Rocío turned around, and Vicente saw a coldness in her eyes that he hadn’t noticed before.
—Because I have a son, and he is more important than your comfort.
-Dew…
—That’s enough, Vicente. It’s over. If you don’t like it, you can leave.
Vicente looked at her. Where was that sweet woman who cooked for him and asked him about his day? The one who massaged his shoulders after work and told him she loved him?
One night he couldn’t take it anymore. Adrián blasted music, and Vicente, after his night shift, tried to sleep on the balcony.
—Turn down the music! —he knocked on the door.
“I can’t hear you!” Adrian shouted.
—Turn it down! People are sleeping!
The door opened. Adrian was smiling insolently.
—He sleeps in the kitchen. It’s quieter there.
“I can’t sleep in the kitchen!” Vicente exploded. “I need a decent bed!”
“Well, buy an apartment,” he shrugged. “It’s already taken here.”
—Don’t disrespect me, brat— Vicente closed the door of the building with a sigh, while the laughter of Adrian and his friends mingled with the music that now echoed in what was once his home.
“The corner that is no longer mine”
Vicente spent the night awake. The hum of the music still echoed in his head, even though it had died away hours ago. He woke up at dawn, his back aching from the humidity on the balcony. As he looked at the stacked boxes, a cruel truth hit him: he no longer had a place. It wasn’t his home. It wasn’t his family. It was nothing.
That same day, he left early. He went to the corner bar, ordered a double espresso, and skimmed the ads in the local newspaper. He searched without searching. Rooms, shared apartments, tiny studios with absurd prices.
A young, new waitress asked him if he wanted another coffee. He shook his head. How had he gotten here? At 58 years old, displaced from his own life, with an imaginary suitcase he didn’t even know how to fill.
That afternoon, she waited for Adrián to leave. She entered the room. His room. It had been painted. The curtains were new. On the desk, architecture books, a modern lamp, the boy’s laptop. Nothing of his. Nothing. Not a photo, not an old pen. Not even the faint scent of his cologne on the pillows. Erased.
He returned to the balcony. He opened one of the boxes. Inside were his books, his favorite shirt, some old letters from his daughter, and the early retirement medal he hadn’t yet hung on any wall. He took it out, held it between his fingers, and felt a pang in his chest. Not of pain, but of clarity.
At night, Rocío was watching a series on the couch. Adrián hadn’t returned.
“Rocío,” Vicente said, standing with unusual calm. “I’m going to go.”
She turned her head, surprised.
-As?
—Just like that. I’m leaving. This house isn’t my house anymore. You’re no longer my wife. You’re Adrian’s mother. Period.
—Vicente, don’t be dramatic. Where are you going?
—I don’t know. But I’d rather sleep on a bench in the rain than continue sleeping on the balcony of my own apartment.
Rocío turned off the television.
—Are you leaving me?
—No. You kicked me out when you decided my place was among boxes.
She didn’t answer.
Vicente went to the balcony, stuffed some clothes into a backpack, and closed each box like someone closing a chapter. He walked through the kitchen and looked at the calendar on the wall one last time. A picture of a smiling cat read. “August,” it said.
“Good luck, Rocío,” he said without looking at her. “Take care of your son.”
And he left.
That night, he slept at a former coworker’s house, on an old but comfortable sofa. They offered him a place to stay for a few days. That was enough for him.
The following Monday, he went to the registry office. He consulted with a lawyer. He discovered something Rocío and Adrián hadn’t expected: that the apartment was still in his name alone. That he still had rights. That he wasn’t as alone as he thought.
He didn’t return home immediately. He stayed with his friend for a few more days. He thought. He planned. Not angrily, but firmly.
He knew that sooner or later he would have to return. Not to fight. But to reclaim what was his. His place. His respect.
But above all, their dignity.
“What belongs to me”
Three weeks later, Vicente returned to what was still legally his home. He didn’t call ahead. He didn’t give any warning. He walked firmly up the stairs, a folder in his hand and a calm heart.
She rang the doorbell. Rocío opened the door with the nervous expression of someone who fears the story isn’t over yet.
“Are you here to get more things?” he asked.
“I’ve come for what’s mine,” he replied calmly.
—The rest of your boxes?
Vicente looked at her with a disarming peace.
—No. I’m here for the house. The apartment is still in my name. No one has legally deprived me of anything. And I’ve decided not to give up.
Rocío blinked. She hadn’t expected it.
—Vicente, you can’t…
—Yes, I can. I’ve already spoken to a lawyer. I have the right to live here. But don’t worry, I don’t want to fight. I want to propose something fair. You and Adrian can look for another place. I’ll give you two months to move.
She looked at him in disbelief.
—Are you kicking us out?
—No. I’m getting back what belongs to me. I bought this apartment. I worked for over thirty years to build it. And I’m not going to be the one sleeping on the balcony while someone else warms my bed and sits in my chair.
Rocío felt a pang in her stomach. Not only because of Vicente’s firmness, but because of the realization that she had never fully known him. She had underestimated him. She had thought him weak. Invisible. But he was there, more whole than ever.
“What do you expect us to do?” she asked, her tone neither pleading nor angry. Just bewilderment.
—The same thing they did to me. Finding a way to make a living. Starting over.
Adrian appeared behind him, listening. His usual arrogance was gone. For the first time, he looked like a confused child.
-Dad…
—Don’t call me that. You’re not my son. But I wish you luck. And a piece of advice: don’t build your future by stepping on other people’s shoulders. Because one day, those shoulders get tired… and they get up.
Vicente entered. He went to his room. Adrián’s new room. He opened the closet, took out the boy’s clothes, and carefully put them in a suitcase. Then he went to the balcony, grabbed his boxes, and began unpacking.
That night, he slept in his bed. He made himself a simple dinner. He listened to his favorite music. Silence. Freedom. The taste of justice.
Two months later, Rocío and Adrián moved into a small apartment on the outskirts. She tried calling him several times. Vicente never answered. Not out of resentment, but because he’d learned to value himself. And part of that was closing the door with dignity.
**
A year later, Vicente transformed the apartment. He painted the walls, bought a new sofa, and adopted an old cat from the neighborhood shelter. He started taking literature classes, something he’d always dreamed of doing. He wasn’t looking to replace what was lost, but rather to rebuild with what was left.
One afternoon, while walking through the park, he saw a woman reading on a bench. He smiled at her. She smiled back.
“Do you like Benedetti?” he asked, pointing at the book.
“A lot,” she replied. “Do you?”
“I’m starting to like it,” Vicente said. “Can I sit down?”
And so another story began. Not one to erase the previous one, but to prove that it’s never too late to claim what you deserve: respect, space… and a new beginning.
END
