“Tell him the previous owner is deceased. The new management strictly follows market rates. Pay or vacate.”
But I wasn’t done. I hired a private investigator. I needed to know the extent of the rot.
The report confirmed my suspicions. Robert and Dawn were drowning in debt. They lived a champagne life on a beer budget. Leased cars, maxed-out credit cards, and Dawn’s ‘consulting business’ was a sham that barely broke even.
I found out Dawn’s biggest client rented space in another one of my commercial buildings.
“Raise the rent on Unit B in the South Plaza,” I told Roger.
“The tenant might cut costs to afford it,” Roger warned.
“Exactly,” I smiled.
A week later, Dawn lost her biggest contract. The financial noose was tightening around my son’s neck, and he had no idea his mother was the one pulling the rope.
Then came the inevitable. Robert missed the first month of the new rent.
“Eviction notice,” I commanded.
“Mrs. Salazar… are you sure? He is your son.”
I looked at the scar on my temple, hidden under a layer of expensive foundation. “He didn’t hesitate to evict me, Roger. Proceed.”
Robert called the law firm every day. He begged. He cried. He lied. He said he had a sick mother to support (a lie that made me laugh out loud).
Finally, the court date was set.
“I want to be there,” I told Roger.
“It’s risky. He might see you.”
“He won’t,” I said. “He never really looked at me when I lived with him. Why would he recognize me now?”
The courthouse smelled of floor wax and anxiety. I sat in the back row, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and dark glasses.
Robert and Dawn walked in. They looked terrible. Robert had lost weight; his suit was wrinkled. Dawn, usually impeccable, looked frayed, her roots showing. They sat at the defendant’s table, arguing in hushed, angry whispers.
“You said you handled this!” Dawn hissed.
“I’m trying, Dawn! They won’t listen!” Robert shot back.
The judge was a no-nonsense woman with gray hair. “Case number 402. Nemesis Holdings vs. Robert Salazar.”
Roger stood up, smooth and lethal. “Your Honor, the defendant has failed to pay the adjusted rent for two consecutive months. We have provided proper notice. We are seeking immediate eviction and back pay of six thousand dollars.”
Robert stood up, his hands shaking. “Your Honor, please. The increase was sudden. My father owned the building… we had an agreement…”
“Do you have a written contract guaranteeing that rate in perpetuity?” the judge asked.
“No, but…”
“Then the current owner is within their rights. Do you have the funds to pay the arrears today?”
Robert looked at Dawn. Dawn looked away.
“No, Your Honor.”
“Judgment for the plaintiff. You have seventy-two hours to vacate.”
The gavel banged. It sounded like the ladle hitting my head. Sharp. Final.
Robert slumped in his chair. Dawn stood up and stormed out of the courtroom, leaving him alone. As Robert walked down the aisle, he passed right by me. He brushed against my coat. He didn’t even glance at the elegant woman in the back row.
I was invisible to him when I was poor. I was invisible to him now that I was powerful.
Three days later, Roger called me.
“They’re out. The apartment is vacant. But Robert… he’s in the lobby. He’s refusing to leave until he speaks to a representative of Nemesis Holdings. He says he has information about the ‘previous owner’s wishes.’”
I swiveled my chair around to look at the city skyline. “Bring him to the office, Roger. It’s time.”
I set the stage. I sat in Roger’s massive leather chair, behind his imposing oak desk. The blinds were drawn, casting the room in shadow, save for a single lamp illuminating my face.
When Robert walked in, he looked broken. His eyes were red-rimmed. He was carrying a plastic bag with his belongings—exactly as I had done months ago.
“Thank you for seeing me,” he stammered, looking at his feet. “I just… I wanted to explain that my father, Henry Salazar, would never have wanted this. He cared about family.”
“Is that so?” I asked. My voice was calm, steely.
Robert’s head snapped up. He squinted, peering into the gloom.
“That voice…” he whispered.
I leaned forward into the light. “Hello, Robert.”
He staggered back as if he’d been shot. He grabbed the back of a chair to steady himself. “Mom? What… what are you doing here? You’re the cleaning lady?”
“I am Nemesis Holdings, Robert,” I said. “I am the owner. Of the building. Of the apartment you just lost. Of everything.”
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He looked at my suit, my hair, the diamonds in my ears.
“No,” he gasped. “That’s impossible. You… you were homeless.”
“I was,” I agreed. “Because you put me there. You kicked me out with two hundred dollars. You let your wife assault me. And when I was bleeding on your floor, you turned up the television.”
He fell into the chair, burying his face in his hands. “Oh my god. Oh my god.”
“Why, Robert?” I asked. The question I had carried for months. “Why did you do it?”
He looked up, tears streaming down his face. “I was weak, Mom. Dawn… she was always unhappy. She spent so much money. I thought if I gave her what she wanted… if I got rid of the ‘problem’… she would finally be happy. I was a coward.”
“Yes,” I said. “You were.”
“Where is she now?” I asked.
“She left me,” he laughed bitterly. “The moment the eviction notice came. She said she didn’t sign up for poverty. She’s gone.”
Silence stretched between us.
“So,” he said, wiping his nose. “You did this? You raised the rent? You evicted me? To get revenge?”
“Not revenge, Robert. Justice. I needed you to understand what it feels like to have the rug pulled out from under you. I needed you to feel the cold.”
He nodded slowly. “I feel it. I have nothing, Mom. I’m sleeping in my car tonight.”
A part of me wanted to reach for my checkbook. To write him a check, to fix it, to be his mother again. But Henry’s voice echoed in my head: You are a giant. Giants don’t raise weak men.
“I won’t give you money, Robert,” I said.
He flinched.
“And I won’t give you an apartment.”
He looked down.
” But,” I said, sliding a business card across the desk. “I have a building in the valley that needs a superintendent. It’s hard work. Fixing toilets, painting walls, taking out the trash. It pays minimum wage. And a small studio apartment in the basement comes with the job.”
He looked at the card. It was a lifeline. It was a test.
“You want me to be a janitor?” he asked.
“I want you to be a man who earns his keep,” I replied. “Take it or leave it.”
He hesitated. Then, with a trembling hand, he took the card.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “I… I don’t deserve it.”
“No,” I said. “You don’t. But I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it because I refuse to be the kind of person who leaves family on the street. Even if you were.”
Epilogue
It has been a year since that meeting.
I live in a beautiful bungalow near the coast now. I paint watercolors in the morning and manage my empire in the afternoon. I established a foundation for elderly women facing homelessness. We call it “The Henry Project.”
Robert took the job.
I check on him sometimes, from a distance. The building manager tells me he works hard. He keeps the place clean. He is polite to the tenants. He looks tired, but he looks real. He isn’t hiding behind a television screen anymore.
Last Sunday, my phone rang.
“Hi, Mom,” Robert said. His voice was humble. “I saved up some money. I was wondering… could I buy you a coffee? There’s a diner near my building. They make good soup.”
I smiled. I looked at the photograph of Henry on my mantle.
“Soup sounds good, Robert,” I said. “I’ll be there.”
I hung up the phone and walked out onto my balcony. The ocean breeze was cool, but I didn’t shiver. I wasn’t the woman who trembled in the cold anymore. I was Helen Salazar. And I had finally learned that the strongest steel is forged in the hottest fire.
