And she wasn’t alone.
Beside her stood an unknown man, hurriedly folding clothes and stuffing them into a large suitcase on the bed. They were laughing softly.
A laugh I hadn’t heard in five years. A laugh that cut me to the core.
“Hurry,” she said in a clear, strong voice. “Before he comes back. Grab all the money he keeps in the wardrobe. We’re going south and starting over.”
I dropped my keys on the floor.
The metallic sound alerted them.
Ximena paled. In her hands trembled a wad of bills: the money from my sleepless nights, my work, the medicines she never needed.
I didn’t scream.
I didn’t hit anything.
I just felt something inside me shut down.
“Since when?” I asked in a whisper.
Two years.
Two years of walking. Two years of pretending.
The man was a former lover. They had reconnected. She pretended to be paralyzed to get a free caregiver, a house, money… while he “stabilized.”
