“Rebeca, what’s wrong with you?”
“Where is my mother’s money?”
“Are you really going to let her go hungry?”

I stared at the screen and couldn’t help but laugh.

On the table, the red folder with the divorce papers was answer enough—clearer than any explanation I could give.

Ungrateful?

There was no longer any connection between me and that family.

I swiped away the notifications, didn’t reply, and set my phone aside. My chest felt lighter, filled with a calm I hadn’t experienced in years.

That night, he called.

The phone rang for nearly a minute before I finally answered. It was 10:41 p.m., and his voice was tight with barely controlled anger.

“Have you lost your mind? That support was humanitarian. If you don’t give my mother money, how do you expect her to live?”

My reply was simple:

“Aren’t you supposed to support her?”

A heavy silence followed on the other end.

I knew perfectly well he was standing next to his so-called “great love,” careful not to raise his voice so as not to wake her. I had no interest in playing the martyr anymore, so I ended the call.

The next morning, it wasn’t Mauricio who reacted first.

It was his mother, Doña Socorro.