Rafael had known she would come.That was the thing about his mother. She never allowed wounds to fester quietly. She arrived at them, loud and demanding that things be the way she wants them.So, when there was a knock on his door just after nine, sharp and insistent, Rafael was not too surprised.He had been sitting in the living room with the lights low, a glass of untouched water on the table in front of him, his jacket draped over the back of a chair. His phone lay face down beside it. Silent. It had been silent all evening, not because Irene had not called, but because he had made the deliberate choice not to answer.He rose slowly, as if answering the door were an obligation rather than a reaction, and crossed the room. Through the peephole, he saw exactly who he expected to see.Irene stood rigid on the doorstep, coat immaculate, hair perfect, fury barely contained beneath her carefully composed exterior. Her lips were pressed together in a thin, bloodless line. One manicured h
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