I remained kneeling on the ground, the credential trembling between my fingers.
The room was spinning.
I had to put one hand on the floor to avoid falling.
I read the name once.
Then another one.
**Mariana Salvatierra.**
Below the photo, in official lettering, appeared an address in Monterrey.
And further down, that word that had broken me in two:
**Wife.**
I felt something inside me break with a dry, invisible, definitive sound.
Alejandro had not only lied to me.
He had built another life.
Another woman.
Another home.
And I had been sleeping on the test for months.
I took a deep breath, but the air scratched me from the inside.
I looked at the package again.
There was a woman’s blouse with dark stains, stiffened by time.
A gold earring.
A crumpled receipt from a pharmacy in Monterrey.
And a small chain with a medal of the Virgin.
None of that was mine.
Nothing.
