“You have ten seconds to decide whether you’re going to lie again.”
“I never wanted to hurt you.”
“Wrong answer.”
You put her on speaker.
Your mother whispers, “Paula.”
And just like that, the room becomes a courtroom.
Paula starts crying immediately. Not the clean crying of remorse. The messy flooding panic of someone whose consequences have finally arrived. She says it was a mistake, then says it just happened, then says Álvaro pursued her, then says she was lonely, then says she was ashamed, each explanation elbowing the previous one aside like drunks fighting for the same stool.
Your father cuts through it. “Did you know he was taking money?”
A pause.
Then: “I knew he paid for things.”
Your eyes close briefly.
“With whose money?” your father asks.
“I didn’t ask.”
“Because you didn’t want the answer,” Mateo says.
Paula starts crying harder. “I love her. You know I love Lucía.”
That finally does it.
Your mother covers her mouth as if physically struck.
You speak before anyone else can. “No, you love being wanted. You love being chosen. You loved winning something that was never yours to touch.”
The line goes quiet except for her breathing.
Then she says, brokenly, “What are you going to do?”
You open your eyes and answer with a calmness that surprises even you.
“First, I’m going to divorce him. Then I’m going to make sure every stolen dollar is accounted for. And after that, I’m going to see what kind of relationship is possible with a woman who looked me in the face for months while sleeping with my husband.”
There is no threat in your tone. That makes it worse.
Paula whispers your name.
You hang up.
Nobody speaks for a while.
At last Claire says, “You need a lawyer in the morning and a locksmith tonight.”
Your father nods once. “Done.”
The hours that follow are grim, practical, mercifully busy. Mateo drives back to your apartment with you. Claire comes too. Your father calls a locksmith he has known for years. Your mother stays behind, not because she does not care but because she is unraveling in a quieter, older way, one hand over her chest as if betrayal can become cardiac if it enters through blood.
On the drive, Mateo tells you that when he dropped Álvaro off earlier, the man actually asked whether you seemed “better” by the end of dinner. You laugh so hard it scares you. Not because it is funny, but because the alternative is shattering.
At the apartment, the locksmith changes the deadbolt while you stand in the kitchen forwarding evidence to Nina and to a brand-new email account that exists nowhere on any shared device. Claire helps you photograph valuables and gather documents: passport, tax returns, mortgage papers, insurance, account statements. Mateo packs Álvaro’s essentials into two duffel bags with the flat efficiency of a man cleaning a wound.
