Teresa stops asking publicly.
Privately, she calls you a thief.
You learn to let dishonest people misname your boundaries without answering every time.
Three months after the wedding that was not a marriage, you meet Diego in a café.
Neutral place.
Daylight.
Your terms.
He arrives early.
That matters.
He stands when you enter.
That matters too.
He does not try to hug you.
That matters most.
You sit across from him.
He looks at your left hand.
No ring.
He swallows but says nothing.
“I’m in therapy,” he says.
You raise an eyebrow.
“I know. Sounds like something men say when they want a shortcut.”
“Is it?”
“No.” He looks down. “It’s awful.”
That almost makes you smile.
He continues.
“My mother hasn’t spoken to me in two weeks.”
“How do you feel?”
“Guilty. Relieved. Terrified. Angry.”
“Good.”
He looks up.
“Good?”
“Better than obedient.”
He nods slowly.
He tells you he has moved permanently into a small apartment. He tells you he apologized to his sister-in-law, the one who called you crying. He tells you he went to his parents’ house and returned the house key.
“My mother said you ruined me,” he says.
“And did I?”
“No. You interrupted the inheritance.”
“What inheritance?”
“Cowardice.”
That answer stays with you.
You sip your coffee.
“Diego, I’m not signing anything soon.”
