Like my five-year-old Lucía was a burden.
Like I had only been a placeholder until the “right woman” arrived.
Rodrigo’s phone rang before the mediator even finished organizing the documents.
His face softened when he answered.
A softness he had not used with me in years.
“Yes, Fer, it’s done,” he said. “I’m leaving now. Tell my mom not to worry. We’re all going to the clinic. Today we finally see our heir.”
Our heir.
I felt nothing.
Not because it didn’t hurt.
Because when the same wound is opened too many times, eventually it stops bleeding.
I reached into my purse and placed the keys to the Polanco apartment on the table.
“I finished moving our things out yesterday.”
Rodrigo smiled, satisfied.
“Finally. You understood.”
Then I pulled out Mateo and Lucía’s passports.
His smile faded.
“I understood something else too,” I said. “The kids and I are leaving for Madrid today. Our flight takes off in less than two hours.”
Patricia burst out laughing.
“Madrid? With what money? Are you going to sell tamales at the airport?”
Rodrigo stood so fast his chair scraped the floor.
“You can’t take them like that.”
I looked at him calmly.
