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

“We received a report about a domestic dispute.”

“A domestic dispute,” I repeated.

Behind him, Doña Lupita threw both hands toward the sky.

“She admits it! She’s crazy! My son is in Cancún working, and she has stolen his house!”

I looked at her carefully.

She was wearing pearls at nine in the morning.

Pearls. Lipstick. A pressed blouse. A handbag tucked under her arm. A truly worried mother would have come in slippers and messy hair. Doña Lupita had dressed for an audience.

That was the first useful thing I noticed.

The second was the black SUV slowly turning onto the street behind her.

Rodrigo’s SUV.

My stomach did not drop.

It hardened.

He had not rushed home in panic.

He had arrived with reinforcements.