You slam your hand against the armrest.
The crack of palm against wood silences him better than shouting could have.
You have not moved that fast in months. The pain blooms immediately, hot and electric, but the look on his face almost makes it worth it. He genuinely thought your body was too weak to answer him now. You can see it in the shock, the recalculation, the first ugly shimmer of panic rising through the polish.
One of the lawyers steps back.
The other looks at Mauricio, then at you, and understands the problem instantly. If you can speak, if you can issue commands, if you can react coherently in real time, the guardianship petition they came to present this morning changes shape completely. It no longer looks like responsible family intervention.
It looks like theft arriving early.
“Perhaps,” the older lawyer says carefully, “this is not the appropriate moment for—”
“No,” you say. “It is.”
The words are coming easier now, though each one still scrapes. You force yourself to breathe slowly. You have spent two years letting anger turn your house into a prison. You will not waste the first honest moment by sounding less precise than the man trying to take your life apart.
“You bring lawyers,” you say to Mauricio, “into my office. You grab a child. You shove her mother. You call security for them in my house.” Your eyes lock on his. “You are done here.”
Mauricio laughs again, but the sound is thinner now.
“With respect, Tío, you are not well. We came because everyone is worried about your condition.”
