My husband.
The man who had told me he was fourteen thousand kilometers away closing a deal that was crucial for our future.
Beside her, wearing a white dress, with impeccable manicures and one hand placed with theatrical pride on her belly, was Ximena.
Twenty-four years.
Junior business development.
Ambitious, quiet, observant, and always just barely too available whenever Ricardo showed up at the office.
I recognized her instantly.
Not only because of the face, but because of that retrospective discomfort that suddenly turns a hundred scattered details into a single unbearable truth.
His laughter was too soft in meetings where he had nothing to contribute.
The messages outside of business hours said they were “due to project emergencies”.
The habit of using the same shades of perfume that Ricardo liked on other women, although I would never have known that he had a list.
I kept sliding with my numb finger.
There were more photos.
