He thought Maribel sent money hidden from her family in Puebla. Or worse, that I had secret savings to leave it someday.
The drop that spilled the glass came on their wedding anniversary.
Martin returned late, tired and bad, hoping to find reheated rice.
But the table was set.
There was roasted chicken, codito soup, hot tortillas, apple soda and even a small flan.
Maribel wore a simple red dress, the same one she wore when they were still boyfriends and walked along the Alameda holding hands.
“Happy anniversary, Martin,” she said, smiling nervously.
He didn’t smile.
“And this with what money did you buy it?”
Maribel was freezing.
Before answering, his cell phone vibrated on the table.
Martin managed to read the message.
“Doña Maribel, tomorrow we signed. Bring the last payment. — Ernesto.”
Martin’s face hardened.
“Ernesto?” he asked with a broken voice of courage. Who the hell is Ernesto?
Maribel paled.
Martin, wait…
But he had already taken the cell phone.
“5 years taking my money to give it to another bastard!
Maribel opened a drawer, took out a thick yellow envelope and put it in front of him with his hands shaking.
Before you say anything else, open this up.
Martin looked at the envelope like a bomb.
And when he broke the flap, he felt the air stuck in his chest.
PART 2
Inside the envelope there were no love letters.
There were no pictures.
There was no evidence of a betrayal.
There were notary papers.
Martin pulled out the first blade with tense hands, still breathing like a locked bull.
He read the header.
“Purchase of Sale Contract.”
Then he saw his name.
Martin Hernandez Lopez.
And next door, hers.
Maribel Cruz Hernandez.
Then he read the address.
A land of 120 square meters in Tecámac, State of Mexico.
Martin blinked.
He read again.
The blade seemed to mock his anger.
“What’s this?” he murmured.
Maribel wiped a tear with the back of her hand.
It’s our land.
He didn’t answer.
Not because he didn’t want to, but because he suddenly found no voice.
Maribel pulled another leaf out of the envelope.
It was a simple shot.
A 2 bedroom cottage, living room, kitchen, bathroom, service patio and a piece of garden in front.
In a corner, with a blue pen, someone had written:
“Space for Bugambilia.”
Martin swallowed saliva.
When they were boyfriends, he always said that one day he would have a house with a bugambilia at the entrance, like his grandmother’s in Oaxaca.
I was joking.
I was saying it when they didn’t even have to pay full the room where they lived.
Maribel never made fun of that dream.
