I wore a loose green dress.
Not for him.
For me.
His voice broke when he said my name.
“Laura.”
I sat across from him.
“Diego.”
For a second, I remembered the man I had married.
The one who danced badly in the kitchen.
The one who cried when our dog died.
The one who held my hand through my father’s funeral.
I hated that memory.
Not because it was false.
Because it was not enough.
Diego folded his hands.
“I want to apologize.”
Valeria sat beside me, pen ready.
I nodded once.
He looked at me.
“I was shocked. I thought the vasectomy meant… I thought there was no way. I let fear and pride control me.”
I waited.
“And?”
He swallowed.
“I accused you. Publicly and privately. I left. I involved Paula. I allowed my mother to insult you. I tried to pressure you into signing an unfair divorce agreement.”
His lawyer shifted uncomfortably.
Good.
Diego continued.
“I was wrong.”
The words landed.
Not deeply.
But they landed.
I looked at him.
“Do you understand what you did to me?”
His eyes filled.
“I think so.”
“No. You don’t.”
He flinched.
“You humiliated me while I was newly pregnant. You made me afraid of my own neighbors. You made me afraid my children would be born into hatred. You made me sleep with a chai
