Both.

That matters.

The mortgage has been paid mostly from your salary as a dental office manager, though Diego loves telling people he “carries the household.” You have receipts. Bank transfers. Tax records.

Marisol sits across from you at her kitchen table with coffee and a legal pad.

“Here’s what we do,” she says. “We file first.”

You stare at her. “Divorce?”

“Yes. But not the sad kind where you apologize for being abandoned. The strategic kind.”

Your hand moves to your stomach.

“What about the baby?”

“We establish timeline. We request medical records. We preserve evidence. We document defamation. We secure the house.”

“Defamation?”

She raises an eyebrow. “He publicly implied you cheated. His mother spread it. Paola participated. The neighborhood heard it. His social media post is still up.”

You remember the caption.

Sometimes life takes away a lie to give you peace.

You had read it while vomiting.

Now it looks different.

Not like heartbreak.

Like liability.

part2