He thought Maribel was secretly sending money to her family in Puebla. Or worse, that she had hidden savings to leave him someday.
The final straw came on their wedding anniversary.
Martín returned home late, tired, and in a bad mood, expecting to find reheated rice.
But the table was set.
There was roasted chicken, elbow macaroni soup, warm tortillas, apple soda, and even a small flan.
Maribel was wearing a simple red dress, the same one she had worn when they were still dating and strolled hand-in-hand through the Alameda park.
“Happy anniversary, Martín,” she said, smiling nervously.
He didn’t smile.
“And where did you get this?”
Maribel froze.
Before she could answer, her cell phone vibrated on the table.
Martín managed to read the message.
“Doña Maribel, we’ll sign tomorrow. Bring the final payment. —Ernesto.”
Martín’s face hardened.
“Ernesto?” he asked, his voice cracking with anger. “Who the hell is Ernesto?”
Maribel paled.
“Martín, wait…”
But he had already grabbed his cell phone.
“Five years taking my money to give it to some other bastard!”
Maribel opened a drawer, took out a thick yellow envelope, and held it in front of him, her hands trembling.
“Before you say anything else, open this.”
Martín stared at the envelope as if it were a bomb.
And when he tore open the flap, he felt like his breath caught in his chest.
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