—I was pregnant.
—We didn’t know.
—They didn’t want to know.
She pressed the flowers to her chest.
—They are my grandchildren.
I stared at her for a long time.
—A few days ago they were a stain on my belly.
He paled.
—Don’t be cruel.
—I’m learning from you.
I closed the door.
I heard her crying outside for a while.
I didn’t open it.
That night I hired the lawyer my mother had recommended. Her name was Irene Robles, a woman in her fifties with a sharp gaze and red fingernails. When she heard my story, she didn’t show any surprise. She just took notes.
Did he sign anything about the vasectomy?
—I have messages. She told me she would get it done because she didn’t want any more children “for now,” but that we would see later.
—Did he go to the follow-up appointment?
-No.
—Do you have proof of the relationship with Paola?
I showed her the photos, posts, old messages where she called me “Lauri” and then the photo of the restaurant.
Irene raised an eyebrow.
—What a polite mistress.
-Lot.
—Okay. We’re going to respond to her divorce petition. And we’re going to request measures to protect her financially during her pregnancy. We’re also going to document the defamation, the abandonment, and the pressure she exerted to sign an abusive agreement.
—And the babies?
—Babies are not bargaining chips. If he wants to acknowledge them, he should do it the right way. If he wants proof, it will be done when appropriate, and not to humiliate her.
I breathed.
For the first time since the two lines, I felt like someone was holding a lamp in the middle of the dark room.
Diego appeared at the door three days later.
He didn’t scream.
