For a moment, I thought I had misheard.
“Leave?” I asked.
“Yes, Mariana. You’ve been in the way long enough. Diego and Valeria need space. They’re starting a real family.”
A real family.
I had been married to Ernesto for twelve years. For eight of those, I lived under the same roof as his mother, quietly enduring her constant criticism disguised as advice. Because I couldn’t have children—after an illness that nearly killed me—she always treated me as if I were incomplete.
“You never gave Ernesto a child,” she added. “At least we let you pretend to be Diego’s stepmother. You should be grateful.”
My throat tightened.
Diego was Ernesto’s son from his first marriage. I tried for years to connect with him—helping with school, showing up for events—but Doña Elvira always interfered, making sure he saw me as an outsider.
What she never knew was this:
Ernesto wasn’t the one paying for our comfortable life.
For the past four years, I had been covering the rent—98,000 pesos a month—because his business was failing. I earned more as a pharmaceutical chemist, but he asked me to stay quiet so he wouldn’t look weak in front of his mother.
And I agreed.
Out of love… or foolishness.
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