I considered it carefully.
“No.”
Relief appeared on his face.
But I wasn’t finished.
“But I do not trust you anymore. And love without trust is not a home. It is a decorated ruin.”
He remained silent.
There was nothing he could say that would change the meaning of those words.
I had once believed that love required forgiveness at any cost.
I thought keeping a marriage together meant enduring whatever happened inside it.
But the months following my pregnancy taught me something different.
Forgiveness and reconciliation were not the same thing.
I could stop carrying hatred without inviting Diego back into my home.
I could acknowledge his efforts as a father without pretending he had been a good husband.
And I could allow my children to love him without surrendering my own dignity.
Today, Nicolás and Emilia are one year old.
They move through the house while holding onto furniture.
