You have rights. You’ve been married for fourteen years, you have—
Carmen. —I stopped her calmly—. Trust me.
She looked at me the way many people had looked at me in the last two years: with that mixture of affection and concern that someone has when they think you’re making the mistake of your life.
“What are you doing?” he finally asked.
I smiled.
What I’ve been preparing for two years.
It had begun on a Tuesday in March, two years ago.
Rodrigo arrived late, as usual, and I accidentally found a message on his phone that explained everything. It wasn’t the first message of that kind. But it was the first one I read clearly enough to understand that this wasn’t a slip-up but a long-standing decision.
