Might have argued about love. About legitimacy. About all the humiliating metaphysical territory women are pushed into fighting over while the man at the center escapes into death or charm or convenient ambiguity. But you are too tired for that and too clear now to mistake yourself for her rival.
“This was never about him choosing anyone,” you say. “This was about him spending money he didn’t have while letting two women believe they were living in different stories.”
That hits Teresa hardest.
Your mother-in-law closes her eyes for a moment and presses fingers to her forehead. She knew some of it, perhaps. Not the details. But mothers often know the moral shape of their sons long before they know the paperwork. Teresa spent the last decade treating Esteban’s appetites as unfortunate male weather, embarrassing but natural. She forgave him his vanity because she mistook it for charm. She excused his absences because he always sent flowers after. She called his affairs rumors until one of them began arriving at restaurants in heels and silk with the confidence of a woman who had mistaken public brazenness for security.
Now security is being audited line by line.
