That moment—hearing the ease with which he misled her—struck me deeply. The man who had always spoken to me politely, who had smiled with such warmth at family dinners, now felt like someone I didn’t recognize.
After they left the apartment, the silence weighed heavily. I stepped out of the closet, shaken. The scent of unfamiliar perfume hung in the air. Maricel’s neatly folded clothes were slightly rumpled. On the table sat Rafael’s wedding ring, as if he had tossed it aside without a thought.
But tears alone wouldn’t protect her. I needed to act, carefully and wisely.
Later that afternoon, when Maricel returned home, she found me sitting quietly at the dining table, my hands folded tightly together. I told her everything—not with dramatics, not with accusations, but with the calm honesty a mother owes her child.
She listened without speaking, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.
“Mom,” she whispered, “if you hadn’t been here today… I don’t know what would have happened.”
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