“Camila Herrera,” you say. “Ten o’clock appointment with Mr. Harrow.”
The receptionist glances at the baby carrier for only half a second.
“Of course, Ms. Herrera. Please have a seat.”
You sit carefully, adjusting Mateo against your chest. You fed him forty minutes ago. In eleven days, you have learned to measure life in tiny windows: feed, burp, change, sleep, breathe, repeat.
You have also learned that you can survive with far less help than you once believed you needed.
Three years ago, you married Rodrigo Castellan at his family’s estate in Napa Valley, surrounded by vineyards, gold lights, and speeches about forever. You were twenty-eight. He was thirty-four. He was handsome, intelligent, and attentive in exactly the moments that made a woman feel chosen.
You thought that attention was love.
Later, you learned that sometimes attention is just strategy wearing a beautiful suit.
