Raúl didn’t want conflict. He only wanted to live peacefully in his house, reading beneath the lemon tree rather than ending up alone in some institution while others divided his belongings.
That night, while we talked over a bowl of soup, I told him about my own childhood and about losing my mother young. I had promised myself I would never ignore someone who was facing life alone.
And somehow, without planning it, I suggested something unexpected.
“Marry me,” I said. “If I’m your wife, it will be much harder for them to force you out.”
Raúl looked at me for a long time. He worried people would talk, that my life would become complicated because of his problems.
But to me the house wasn’t just property—it was his history.
So we married quietly at the civil registry one Tuesday morning. Two neighbors served as witnesses. There was no music or grand celebration, only flowers from the garden and a promise to care for each other.
The reaction was immediate. Raúl’s nephews filed a lawsuit, claiming I had manipulated him and taken advantage of his age.
They accused me of trying to control his property.
I knew the court battle would be exhausting. For weeks I endured whispers in the grocery store, comments in the salon, and constant suspicion while I organized documents and helped Raúl manage his finances.
