“You see?” she said. “All men want a son. He’ll have one soon. You should behave with dignity and take care of that girl.”
You thought you had misheard her.
“What did you just say?”
“I said the truth,” she answered coolly. “That young woman is pregnant and knows nothing. Bring her here. Let her live in this house. You can take care of her. It’s more practical for everyone.”
The room tilted. For a second you thought you might actually faint.
You looked at Diego, waiting for outrage, for shame, for some last surviving scrap of humanity. He only rubbed his forehead, irritated by the inconvenience of your pain.
“It makes financial sense,” he muttered.
That night, you sat beside Sofia’s crib in the dark and watched her sleep. Her eyelashes fluttered. Her fist opened and closed against the blanket. She smelled like baby soap and milk and safety. Looking at her, you understood something with a clarity so cold it almost felt peaceful.
If you stayed, you would disappear.
You filed for divorce the next morning.
