-No.
—Not even to pressure me.
-No.
—Not even to say that we’re family like before.
That hurt him.
—So what are we?
I looked at my children.
I thought of the woman who saw two lines and ran happily to show proof.
I thought about the one who was called unfaithful.
In which she vomited while reading a cruel publication.
In which she heard two heartbeats and decided never to kneel again.
“We’re the parents of Nicolás and Emilia,” I said. “That’s a lot. But it’s not marriage.”
Diego closed his eyes.
He accepted.
I don’t know if it was for real or because I had no choice.
Months later, the DNA test was done.
Not because I needed to prove anything.
Because legally it was convenient to shut the world up, and him.
Result: compatible paternity with Diego in both babies.
The sheet arrived by mail.
I read it once and kept it.
I didn’t cry.
I had already cried enough for a truth that was always mine.
The divorce followed.
Slower, more serious, fairer.
The house was secured for me and the children. The pension was established. Diego agreed to mandatory therapy if he wanted extended cohabitation. His mother had to apologize before meeting the babies.
Not a nice apology in front of everyone.
A real one, in my living room, looking me in the face.
“I was cruel to you,” he said.
I was holding Emilia.
-Yeah.
—I was ashamed to think that my son could have been wrong.
—And he preferred to believe that I was just some random woman.
Cry.
-Yeah.
