My name is Lucía Herrera. I’m thirty-seven years old, and I was married to Javier Morales for twelve years. I believed I knew him completely—his silences, his habits, even the small lies I chose to ignore.
What I never imagined was that the truth would reveal itself in the most humiliating and devastating way possible.
That afternoon, a meeting was unexpectedly canceled, so I returned home early. The house felt unusually still. The television was off. There were no footsteps from María, our housekeeper who had been with us for two years.
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