On the plane, I practiced my story several times. The weather. The connections. The airport system went down. I had spent entire nights trying to get back. I cried. I suffered. Fate prevented me from being there.
I even let my beard grow out to look more exhausted.
But when the taxi entered the residential neighborhood in Zapopan, something tightened in my chest.
My SUV was not there.
Mariana’s car was not there either.
And in front of our house, two men were carrying out boxes.
“I’ll get out here,” I told the driver.
I walked quickly toward the entrance, suitcase in one hand and anger rising in my throat.
“Hey! Who authorized you to move my things?”
No one answered.
I entered the house like the owner, the way I always had, certain that my voice was enough to command the world. But I stopped dead when I reached the living room.
Mariana was sitting on the beige couch, pale, thinner, with a blanket over her legs. She had a fresh scar beneath her clothes, exhaustion marked on her face, and a calmness that frightened me.
Mauricio was beside her.
And in front of them, there was a woman in a gray suit, with a black folder on the table.
A lawyer.
I put on the mask immediately.
“Mariana, my love…”
I took a step toward her, but she raised a hand.
“Don’t come near me.”
Her voice did not tremble. Mine did.
“Forgive me, I tried to come. It was impossible. You have no idea how much I suffered…”
Mariana looked at me as if I were a stranger dirtying her living room.
“Did you suffer a lot in Punta Mita?”
I felt the blood drain to my feet.
The lawyer opened the folder and dropped several photographs onto the coffee table.
There I was.
In the hotel lobby, holding Camila by the waist.
At the restaurant, toasting with her.
At the marina, kissing her.
In a designer store, paying for her bag.
On the suite terrace, shirtless, laughing like an idiotic teenager while my wife was fighting to live in a hospital.
“Mariana, I…”
“No,” she cut me off. “Today you are not going to act.”
Mauricio clenched his jaw, but said nothing.
“The confirmation for your reservation arrived in the family account email,” she continued. “The same account you used to pay for dresses, bottles, and a yacht for your mistress.”
“It was a mistake,” I blurted out. “A stupidity. It meant nothing.”
Mariana gave the faintest smile, and that smile hurt me more than a scream.
“How curious. To you, nothing means anything. Not your marriage. Not my life. Not eleven years together.”
The lawyer pushed another folder toward me.
I opened it with clumsy hands.
