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Miguel told me your marriage had been over for a long time, she said. He said you stayed together for appearances and because the house belonged to both of you. He said you knew about me. Not everything, not the pregnancy at first, but that you knew the marriage was finished.
I looked at her.
Then I slid a copy of the deed across the table.
He lied to you too, I said.
Her expression shifted in stages. Confusion. Then embarrassment. Then the hollow realization of someone who had mistaken manipulation for destiny.
I didn’t feel sorry for her. Not enough. She had still slept with my husband. She had still stood in my living room, hand on her belly, while my family smiled around her. But for the first time, I saw clearly that Miguel hadn’t built one lie. He had built several and placed each of us inside whichever version served him best.