“And does that worry you?” I asked him.
“I am worried about not knowing what to give for a birthday to a woman who could buy half the state.”
For my birthday, he gave me a hand-carved wooden bench he had made in his workshop.
It was slightly crooked, it was heavy, and it was perfectly imperfect.
I placed it in my garden as if it were a rare, priceless jewel.
We got married three years later, and he insisted on signing a prenuptial agreement before I even had the chance to propose the idea.
“I arrived with my blueprints, my old truck, and my face,” he said.
“That is exactly what I will take with me if I ever stop deserving your heart.”
With Daniel, I had a beautiful daughter, Valentina, and later a son, Mateo.
My life became calm, noisy, and full of genuine beauty.
It was a life with burnt breakfasts, hectic school homework, wet golden retrievers, and loud laughter in the kitchen.
Then, five years after the divorce, Cynthia showed up outside my corporate office.
I barely recognized her when I walked down to the lobby.
There were no more silver heels or expensive designer perfumes.
She had messy, unkempt gray hair, carried a worn-out bag, and her eyes were deeply sunken from years of stress.
“Ella,” she said, her voice shaking.
“I have come to beg you for help.”
I thought she was going to ask for money, and I was fully prepared to refuse her.
But she talked about Leo.
Brenda and Elias’s son had been diagnosed with a severe form of leukemia.
Brenda had abandoned him with Cynthia, and the older woman was now cleaning offices just to pay for his basic medication.
They did not have enough insurance, and the boy needed an incredibly expensive specialized treatment.
I felt a surge of rage in my chest.
That child was the living proof of a massive betrayal.
But he was also just an innocent child.
I thought of Valentina asleep in her dinosaur pajamas at home.
I thought of my mother, who had died betrayed, but who had never lost her deep compassion for others.
“I am not going to give you a single cent of cash,” I told her firmly.
Cynthia lowered her head and started to cry.
“I understand that completely,” she sobbed.
“But I am going to speak directly with the hospital administrators tomorrow.”
“If Leo is actually sick, the Wilson Group Foundation will cover the entire cost of his medical treatment.”
“You will never touch a single penny of that money.”
Cynthia fell to her knees on the wet sidewalk, weeping uncontrollably.
“Please forgive me, Ella, please forgive me for everything.”
I looked at her without hatred, but also without a single ounce of affection.
“I am not doing this for you, Cynthia.”
“I am doing this because a child should never have to pay for the sins of the adults around him.”
I thought that would be the final chapter, but I was wrong.
A month later, I received a formal request from Elias to visit him in the state penitentiary.
I ignored it until I read the note attached to the envelope.
“It has to do with Leo,” it said, “and with the truth about why you never got pregnant.”
