“I didn’t cheat on him.”
She gave me a pitying smile.
“They all say that.”
Within a week, half the neighborhood knew.
The cheating wife.
The shameless woman.
The one who got pregnant after her husband’s vasectomy.
Then Diego posted a photo with Paola at a restaurant in Polanco. She was holding his arm.
The caption said:
g on the bathroom floor, crying and vomiting at the same time.
I had no peace.
I was terrified.
Terrified of losing my home.
Terrified of raising a child alone.
Terrified that my baby would carry the name of a man who already rejected him before even seeing his face.
Two weeks later, Diego asked me to meet him at a café.
He came with Paola.
And a folder.
“I want a quick divorce,” he said. “And when the baby is born, a DNA test.”
