At 3:16 a.m., my husband texted me: I married Valeria. I’ve been sleeping with her for ten months. You’re boring and pathetic.” I read the message four times, sitting on the living room couch with the TV on mute, blue light washing over my face like something colder than a slap

I looked behind me at the staircase, the kitchen tile, the wedding photo, the sunlight falling across the floor I had paid for month after month while Rodrigo said his commission was late, his mother needed money, the car needed repairs, life was expensive.

“Yes,” I said. “Here.”

He nodded as if he understood.

When they left, I closed the door.

Locked it.

Latched the chain.

Then I walked straight to the wedding photo, lifted it off the wall, and dropped it into the trash.

The glass cracked.

That was when I finally made coffee again.

Not because I needed comfort.

Because I needed to stay awake for the next move.