Even Julián has to look away.
Gabriel takes one step toward the door again, face tight, voice low. “You don’t have to destroy everything.”
It is fascinating, the things men call destruction when women stop volunteering as scaffolding.
You hold the folder against your side. “I didn’t destroy anything. I withdrew from a system built on my exhaustion.”
From inside the elevator, another neighbor steps out. Old Mr. Ríos from the top floor, retired judge, perpetually dressed as if he might be called back to settle civilization at any moment. He takes in the scene with one sweep of sharp eyes and says, dry as chalk, “Well. I see breakfast was ambitious today.”
No one answers.
He nods toward you. “Need a witness, Ms. Lucía?”
You smile for the first time that morning with genuine warmth. “I think I’ve somehow acquired several.”
He looks at Gabriel and Teresa with the mild contempt of a man who has spent decades watching people confuse volume with righteousness. “Then I suggest you both leave before this escalates into something legal and less flattering.”
Teresa’s nostrils flare. “And who are you to say anything?”
Mr. Ríos adjusts his cuffs. “A retired judge with excellent hearing and too much free time.”
The building practically inhales.
Gabriel closes his eyes for one long second, realizing this is no longer a private marital spat but a live dissection of image, money, and dependency with an audience that includes at least one man who probably still writes letters to authorities for sport.
He turns to his mother. “Let’s go.”
She jerks her arm away before he can touch it. “No. She owes me an apology.”
