The day I came home and my key didn’t work, my stomach dropped hard. Through the frosted glass, I saw Mateo’s sneakers—on my welcome mat.

He was only supposed to crash for seven days. His lease fell through, I felt bad, said yes. That was three months ago. At first, he was charming about it—buying groceries, cleaning the bathroom, even made me shakshuka one morning like we were back in Barcelona. But then he started skipping rent. Then using my car. Then “borrowing” things he never returned—my Beats, my air fryer, my weed pen.

He claimed he was job-hunting, but I’d hear him on his phone bragging about sleeping till noon and beating some online poker tournament. I gave him three weeks’ notice, printed and taped to his door. He laughed, said, “You gonna evict your own blood?”

I came back from a weekend trip and found my key dead in the lock. Texted him. No reply. Called. Straight to voicemail. When I banged on the door, a woman I didn’t know answered wearing my hoodie.

She told me to calm down. I asked where Mateo was, and she goes, “He said you moved to Arizona?”

I tried to shoulder past her. She slammed the door in my face. Then I heard it. A man’s voice from inside. Not Mateo’s. Deeper. Older.

I stepped back from the door, heart racing, and peeked through the window.

It was subtle, but there was a second where the curtain lifted, like someone peeking back. Then it dropped. I knocked again—nothing. I stood there, stunned, like maybe the situation would rearrange itself if I waited long enough.

But it didn’t. I was locked out. Of my own place.

I drove to my friend Nadiyah’s and crashed on her couch that night, still in disbelief. Everything I owned was in there—clothes, laptop, even my journals. The next morning, I called the police. Explained the situation. But the officer on the phone sounded bored.

“If he’s been living there more than 30 days, he’s considered a tenant. You’d have to go through a formal eviction.”

“But he doesn’t pay anything,” I said.

“Doesn’t matter. If he receives mail there and you let him stay, he’s got rights.”

I wanted to scream. Instead, I hung up and drove to the library to print out eviction paperwork. The process was long and weirdly humiliating. You always think, this kind of crap happens to other people. You don’t think your own cousin is gonna squat in your apartment and lock you out.

I texted Mateo one last time.

“You have 24 hours to leave before I file eviction. Don’t make this uglier.”

He didn’t respond. But later that night, I got a text from a number I didn’t recognize.

“You’re really doing this? Over what—some rent and a couple appliances?”

It was him. I felt sick. He had the audacity to make me the bad guy.

The next few weeks were surreal. I couldn’t get back into my place. I kept seeing blurry pictures posted by some of Mateo’s friends on Instagram—at my place. Playing beer pong in my kitchen. Smoking on my balcony. One guy was literally wearing my jacket.

I finally got a court date. Mateo didn’t show. The judge granted the eviction, but told me I’d still need a sheriff’s deputy to enforce it. I scheduled the lockout for the following Thursday.

And just when I thought things couldn’t get worse… Mateo messaged me again.

“Place is empty now. You can stop the drama.”

I didn’t believe him. But when I showed up on Thursday with the deputy, the apartment was empty. No Mateo. No squatters. No furniture.

Also, no mine.

Everything was gone. My books, my guitar, my records, my TV. All of it.

The deputy shrugged. “Could’ve moved out overnight. Not much we can do.”

I stood in the doorway, feeling hollow. My apartment looked like it’d been ransacked, then scrubbed down. Not a single trace of me left.

That’s when I saw it. In the kitchen drawer—wedged in the back behind some crumpled takeout menus—was a folded piece of notebook paper.

“Sorry you made this harder than it had to be. I sold your stuff to pay off a few things. You’ll thank me someday. Love you, cuz.”

No signature. Just a doodle of a middle finger and a smiley face.

I should’ve cried, but I just laughed. One of those weird, sharp laughs that catches in your throat. Mateo wasn’t sorry. He was proud of himself. Like this was some genius hustle.

I stayed with Nadiyah for another week while I deep-cleaned the apartment and tried to replace what I could. Insurance helped with a few basics. But it wasn’t the money that stung.

It was the betrayal. Mateo and I grew up thick as thieves. Our moms are sisters. We used to trade comic books, sneak candy into the movies, crash family weddings just to hit the dessert table twice. He’d always been a little wild, sure. But I never thought he’d gut my life like that.

Two months passed.

I blocked him on everything. Told the family what happened, but most of them stayed out of it. One aunt said I was being dramatic. Another told me Mateo was “going through something.” Only my uncle Eldrin—his dad—called me to apologize. Said he didn’t raise Mateo like that. I believed him.

Then one afternoon, I got a call from a number I didn’t recognize.

A man’s voice. Polite, professional. He said his name was Yusuf and that he ran a pawn shop in Echo Park. He asked if I had ever lived with someone named Mateo Gámez.

I froze. “Yeah. Why?”

He explained he had bought a guitar a few weeks back from someone matching Mateo’s description. A rare Seagull S6, with a crack in the neck that had been repaired with copper wire—my guitar. Said something about the guy seeming shady, but he needed inventory.

“He tried to sell me a lot more,” Yusuf said. “Some of it was clearly not his. I held on to the guitar in case someone came asking.”

He let me buy it back for $50. Honestly, he could’ve charged me ten times that. I was just grateful.

That night, I sat on my bed, holding the guitar, feeling something in me start to settle. Like I finally had a piece of myself back.

Over the next few weeks, I started tracking my stuff online. Mateo had listed a bunch of things under fake usernames, but I found some of my records, my speakers, even my coat on resale sites. I contacted the sellers and explained the situation. A few ghosted me. But some actually returned the items—said they’d been scammed too.

And here’s the twist.

One seller told me they’d met Mateo in person. Got his license plate when he dropped off a set of headphones. I passed the info to the police. A detective called me a week later—said Mateo had a warrant out for petty theft and fraudulent sales, and they’d be following up.

I didn’t hear much after that. I wasn’t trying to see him arrested. But I wanted him accountable.

Then about four months later, I got a message. From a name I hadn’t seen in almost a year.

Mateo.

It just said:

“I’m at the shelter off Van Nuys. Detoxing. I messed up. I know that now.”

I stared at the message for a long time. Didn’t reply right away. Part of me wanted to ignore it. Part of me wanted to rip into him.

But I waited.

A few days later, I went by the shelter. Just sat outside in my car for a while. Then he came out—thinner, rougher-looking, with a beard and hollow cheeks.

We talked. Slowly. Carefully. He told me he’d been spiraling for a while. Gambling debts, bad crowds, drugs. Said crashing at my place was supposed to be a “reset.” But once he realized how easy it was to coast, he just… kept going.

He apologized. Genuinely. Said he knew he didn’t deserve forgiveness, but wanted to say it anyway.

I didn’t forgive him right then. But I told him I hoped he stuck with the program. That he found something to rebuild from.

I left feeling weirdly lighter. Not happy. But not bitter anymore either.

A few more months passed. I moved to a new apartment. Bought new furniture, new locks. Started fresh. Mateo kept sending updates—just photos of his progress: working at a mechanic shop, attending meetings, helping clean up the neighborhood park.

Last month, he sent one last photo.

Him, holding a guitar. Not mine. A cheap, beat-up one with stickers on it.

“Trying to make music again. Thought of you. Hope you’re doing okay.”

I am.

So, here’s the thing. You can love someone and still set boundaries. You can care about family and still call out betrayal. Forgiveness isn’t forgetting. It’s choosing peace over poison.

Sometimes the people closest to us hurt us the most. But sometimes, they also find their way back.

And sometimes, you have to let go—not to lose them, but to give them the space to finally become who they were supposed to be.

If this hit home for you, give it a like or share. You never know who needs to hear it.