Diego let out a cold laugh.
“I had a vasectomy two months ago, Laura. I’m not stupid.”
That word hit me like a slap in the face.
Idiot.
That's how the man I loved for eight years treated me.
This same man who had said that the operation was "for us" because there was a lack of money, because we could "decide later".
I reminded him that the doctor had said it wasn't something immediate.
That more tests were needed.
That pregnancy was still possible.
But Diego was no longer listening.
His verdict was already written on his face.
"Who is it?" he asked.
I froze.
" That ? "
“Father. Tell me who he is.”
I felt nauseous.
Not because of the baby.
Because of him.
That same afternoon, she packed her suitcase.
Little clothing.
Enough to make me realize that another place was already waiting for me.
“I’m going to Paola’s house,” he said shamelessly.
Paola.
Your colleague.
The woman who used to text me asking for recipes.
The woman who once told me: “Lauri, your wedding is beautiful.”
The woman who, apparently, was waiting for an opportunity to take my place.
The next day, my mother-in-law arrived with two black bags.
Not to console me.
To recover Diego's belongings.
"How shameful, Laura," she said, looking at my stomach as if it were already evidence against me. "Diego didn't deserve this."
“I wasn’t unfaithful to him.”
He gave me a sympathetic smile.
