I walked out of the courthouse with my coat open because my belly no longer fit into any “normal” clothes. I was seven months pregnant, and even so I felt cold—not from the Madrid winter, but from the paper trembling in my hands: the temporary ruling, the separation of assets, custody still pending. I had rehearsed the “I’m fine” face a thousand times, but when I stepped down the stairs, my throat tightened anyway.
Álvaro was waiting for me on the sidewalk with a crooked smile, as if the trial had been a performance staged for his applause. Beside him stood Clara, his lover, wearing a new coat and carrying a handbag I recognized immediately—the same model I had wanted to buy before we “needed to tighten our belts.” The two of them looked as if they had just stepped out of a photograph; I, on the other hand, carried dark circles under my eyes and a kind of exhaustion that no amount of sleep could erase.
