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Then you learned from Lucía that Diego had left her too.
Not for you.
Not for freedom.
For another woman from his office, younger, impressed, unaware.
Valeria had discovered transfers to a new account and messages that sounded painfully familiar. Diego had told the new woman that Valeria was unstable, postpartum, clingy, impossible.
The script had only changed names.
You met Valeria in a park, not a café, because parks had exits in every direction.
She arrived with the little boy.
Mateo.
That was his name.
He had Diego’s eyes and Valeria’s mouth. He ran ahead toward the pigeons, laughing, innocent and bright beneath a blue cap. You felt something inside you loosen painfully.
Valeria looked older.
Not physically, exactly.
Truth had aged her.
She sat beside you on a bench.
“I know I don’t deserve this meeting,” she said.
“You don’t.”
She nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
You waited.
Not because you wanted her to suffer.
Because you wanted to know whether the apology had roots.
“I’m sorry I slept with your husband. I’m sorry I took money I knew wasn’t mine. I’m sorry I let Mom make you the villain so I could feel less disgusting. I’m sorry I wanted your life and then complained when it became mine.”
You looked at her.
That last sentence was honest enough to hurt.
Valeria cried, but quietly this time.
No performance.
No reaching for you.
No demanding comfort.
“I thought being chosen meant I won,” she whispered. “But he chose me because I was willing to betray you. I don’t know why I thought that made me special.”
Mateo chased a pigeon and fell, then popped back up laughing.