“I know.”
“Can I see you?”
I hesitated.
Then:
“Yes.”
He came over the next day.
This time, I made coffee.
We sat at the kitchen table, and he told me everything.
How Lucía had been lying for years. Small lies at first. Then bigger ones.
How she’d told him I was controlling, manipulative, jealous of their relationship.
How she’d convinced him that keeping me at a distance was healthy.
“I believed her,” he said. “I thought I was protecting our marriage.”
“You were protecting her.”
“I know that now.”
He looked at me.
“How do I fix this?”
“You can’t fix it, Javier. You can only do better.”
He nodded.
“I want to do better.”
“Then show me.”
And slowly, carefully, he did.
He started coming over on Sundays again.
He helped me fix the broken fence in the garden.
He sat with me and watched old movies.
He didn’t make excuses. He didn’t ask me to forgive Lucía.
He just showed up.
And week by week, month by month, I felt the wall between us start to crack.
Six months after Lucía’s arrest, Blanca called me.
“Carmen, would you like to have lunch?”
We met at a small restaurant near the river.
