Two weeks later, Diego quoted me in a coffee shop.
He didn't come alone.
Paula came with him.
And in Diego's hand was a folder.
“I want a quick divorce,” he said bluntly. “And when the baby is born, I will demand a DNA test.”
Paula gently stroked her belly, though she was still completely flat, with a smile of satisfaction impossible to hide.
“That’s the healthiest thing for everyone.”
I stared at her.
“For everyone, or just for you?”
Diego hit the table with his hand.
“Stop making yourself the victim. You are the one who destroyed this family.”
I opened the folder.
Giving up my rights to the house.
Minimal child support.
Conditional custody.
And then I saw a clause that froze my blood: if the baby was not Diego’s, I would have to return all the “marital expenses” of the last few years.
I laughed.
A dry, broken laughter.
“Marital expenses? Are you going to include all the years I spent washing your underwear?”
Paula's face turned red.
Diego squeezed his jaw.
“Sign it, Laura. Don’t make this more humiliating than it already is.”
“Humilious was that you left with your lover before even accompanying me on a prenatal appointment.”
I didn't sign.
That night, I slept with a chair wedged against my bedroom door.
I didn't know why I did it.
Perhaps when a woman has been pushed to the limit of humiliation, she begins to hear danger in every little sound.
The next day, I went alone to the ultrasound appointment.
She was wearing a loose dress.
I combed my hair.
I wore lipsticks, even though my hand was shaking.
Not for Diego.
By myself.
Because of the baby inside, I wasn't to blame for any of this.
The clinic slightly smelled of antiseptic alcohol, talc and the repressed fear of young mothers.
My husband had a vasectomy, but two months later I became pregnant. She called me a traitor, left me for another woman... but I had no idea that
