But I wrote it down somewhere in my heart, without promising her anything.
Paola didn’t disappear so easily.
He sent me a message from an unknown number:
“I just want you to know that Diego told me you guys were already in bad shape before I came along.”
I replied:
“And you believed him because it suited you.”
He wrote to me more.
I didn’t answer.
A month later I learned that she was trying to sue him for money he had lent her for an apartment. Diego had lied to her too. He promised her that as soon as I “confessed” to the infidelity, he would keep the house and they would start over.
How beautiful.
I was the villain in his story and the mortgage guarantee in hers.
Irene laughed when she found out.
—Men who lie a lot often recycle scripts.
The neighborhood, on the other hand, took longer to fall silent.
The neighbor who used to greet me with pity started to see me differently when my mother-in-law, desperate to regain access, told everyone that the babies were indeed Diego’s. Then I went from being seen as unfaithful to “poor thing.”
I didn’t like it either.
I didn’t want pity.
I wanted respect.
One day, in the store, a lady said:
—Oh, Laura, it’s so good that everything is cleared up.
I looked at her with a bag of rice in my hand.
—Not everything was clarified. It was only proven that I wasn’t lying. What he did remains just as shrouded in mystery.
The lady didn’t know what to say.
Better.
Sometimes other people’s silence can also be learned.
At twenty-eight weeks, one of the babies started to worry the doctor because of his growth. I was put on almost complete bed rest. My mom moved in with me. Diego asked for permission to help.
I said yes, but from the outside.
Shopping.
Medicines.
Payments.
Transfers.
No bed.
No house.
No marriage.
One day she arrived with diapers and a bag of sweet bread. My mom opened it.
“Leave them there,” he told her.
—Can I see her?
—She can see him whenever she wants to see him.
—I am her husband.
My mom let out a dry laugh.
—Son, you unsubscribed yourself.
I listened from the room and smiled for the first time in days.
The babies were born at thirty-six weeks.
A boy and a girl.
Nicholas and Emilia.
Small, wrinkled, furious.
Alive.
When they placed them close to me, I felt all the noise of the world fade away. The accusations. The vasectomy. Paola. The agreement. The stares. It all faded into the distance.
It was just them.
My two tired miracles.
Diego was in the waiting room. I allowed him to come in later, after I had already held them, kissed them, and called their names.
He entered slowly.
As if the room were a church.
Upon seeing them, he covered his mouth.
—Laura…
—Don’t speak loudly.
He nodded.
He approached the crib.
Nicholas barely opened his eyes.
Emilia moved her mouth as if searching for milk.
Diego cried again.
—They are perfect.
I looked at him.
—Yes. And you’ll never use its existence to erase what you did.
He shook his head.
-No.
—Not even to pressure me.
-No.
—Not even to say that we’re family like before.
That hurt him.
—So what are we?
I looked at my children.
I thought of the woman who saw two lines and ran happily to show proof.
I thought about the one who was called unfaithful.
In which she vomited while reading a cruel publication.
In which she heard two heartbeats and decided never to kneel again.
“We’re the parents of Nicolás and Emilia,” I said. “That’s a lot. But it’s not marriage.”
Diego closed his eyes.
He accepted.
I don’t know if it was for real or because I had no choice.
Months later, the DNA test was done.
