That the audit included rent, gas, baby purchases, hotels, and cash withdrawals impossible to justify.
That I could report him for misappropriation and breach of trust…
But I hadn’t done it yet.

Fernando wanted to turn that into a sentimental drama.

“I’m not going to abandon my son,” she blurted out.
“What do you expect me to do?
Deny it?”

“No,” I replied. “
I expect you to take care of him with your salary,
not mine.”

Camila remained still.

As if that sentence had opened an uncomfortable door for her.

He asked me for a glass of water.
I gave it to him.
While he drank, he looked around the living room.
My mother’s paintings.
The staircase.
The antique furniture that Fernando had always presented as “our life.”

For the first time, she understood something:
Almost nothing he said was true.

I gave them an hour to leave.
The locksmith was waiting downstairs.

Fernando alternated between pride and pleading.
He called me resentful.
He reminded me of vacations, dinners, anniversaries, our wedding day in San Miguel de Allende .
As if a collection of memories could erase a three-year double life.

Then he changed his strategy and tried to intimidate me:

—If you sink me, I sink you with you.