The woman who once told me, “Lauri, your marriage is so beautiful.”

The woman who had apparently been waiting for a chance to take my place.

The next day, my mother-in-law arrived with two black bags.

Not to comfort me.

To collect 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 didn’t cheat on him.”

She gave me a pitying smile.

“They all say that.”

Within a week, half the neighborhood knew.

The cheating wife.

The shameless woman.

The one who got pregnant after her husband’s vasectomy.

Then Diego posted a photo with Paola at a restaurant in Polanco. She was holding his arm.

The caption said:

“Sometimes life removes a lie to give you peace.”

I read it while sitting on the bathroom floor, crying and vomiting at the same time.

I had no peace.

I was terrified.

Terrified of losing my home.

Terrified of raising a child alone.

Terrified that my baby would carry the name of a man who already rejected him before even seeing his face.

Two weeks later, Diego asked me to meet him at a café.

He came with Paola.

And a folder.

“I want a quick divorce,” he said. “And when the baby is born, a DNA test.”

Paola touched her flat stomach and smiled faintly.

“It’s the healthiest choice for everyone.”

I looked at her.

“For everyone, or for you?”