“I went on a business trip for a month, and as soon as I got home, my husband hugged me tightly: ‘Let’s go to the bedroom, I missed you so much…’ I smiled, never imagining that this hug would mark the beginning of a chain of days impossible to forget. Because it wasn’t just him waiting for me in that house…”
The first rain of the season fell unexpectedly, much like the mood of a woman who had just left the airport after a month of work in Monterrey. Mariana dragged her suitcase, her heart pounding with excitement. It wasn’t just because the project had been a success—though that filled her with pride as well—but because she was finally returning home. To Ricardo, the man who whispered “I love you” every night before she fell asleep.
Mariana opened the door with her fingerprint, her heart beating as fast as if it were their first date. The two-story house was quiet, with a faint scent of freshly used floor cleaner. As soon as she set her suitcase down, she heard hurried footsteps rushing down the stairs.
“You’re back, my love!” Ricardo exclaimed, hugging her as if he hadn’t seen her in a year. He squeezed her so tightly it nearly knocked the air out of her, then grinned from ear to ear:
“Let’s go to the bedroom! I missed you so much!”
Mariana laughed, nestling into his shoulder. The familiar scent of his skin, his quickened breath, the spark in his eyes—it all gave her peace. She nodded:
“Let me shower first.”
Ricardo pouted like a spoiled child but eventually agreed. While she showered, he put on soft music and prepared a glass of orange juice, which he left on the table. Simple details, but for Mariana, they meant everything.
That night, they held each other as if they had never been apart. Ricardo whispered sweet words, and Mariana felt blessed. She knew many women out there had to carry the weight of the world alone, but she had a man who supported her, cared for her, made her feel loved.
The next morning, Ricardo got up early to prepare breakfast: fried eggs, bread, and an iced latte, just the way she liked it. He said:
“Regain your strength, love.”
Mariana smiled happily. Maybe people said Mexican men weren’t very romantic, but her husband was the exception.
However, happiness is sometimes like crystal: transparent, beautiful… but fragile.
Three days later, Mariana found a red hair tie under the pillow in their bedroom. It wasn’t hers. She never used that kind, much less that color.
She held it in her hand for a long time. She didn’t feel overwhelming jealousy or fury, only a deep sadness, like a melody slowly fading away. Because women have a sixth sense. She said nothing.
That night, while resting her head on her husband’s arm, she asked softly:
“While I was away… did anyone come to our house?”
Ricardo answered without hesitation…
“…No,” Ricardo said instantly. Too instantly.
“Just me and the walls missing you.”
His voice was smooth, rehearsed. His arm tightened around her waist, not tenderly, but possessively—like a lid snapping shut.
Mariana didn’t respond. She stared at the ceiling, counting the slow rotations of the fan. In her chest, something shifted. Not anger. Not yet. Something quieter. Sharper.
The next days unfolded like a play she already knew the ending to.
Ricardo became attentive in excess. He sent messages every hour. He insisted on cooking. He suggested they go out less.
“Why go anywhere when we have everything here?” he’d say, smiling.
At night, he held her like an anchor afraid of losing land.
Mariana noticed everything.
The way he began locking his phone.
The unfamiliar perfume clinging faintly to the couch cushions.
The guest bathroom trash emptied too often.
The way the sheets smelled freshly washed every time she left the house for more than an hour.
On the fifth day, while Ricardo showered, Mariana opened the washing machine.
Inside, tangled with their clothes, was a lace blouse. Red. Small. Not hers.
Her hands didn’t shake.
She folded it carefully and placed it back.
That night, she dreamed of rain falling inside the house.
THE OTHER WOMAN
On the seventh day, Mariana took a half day off work.
She didn’t tell Ricardo.
She returned home quietly at 3:17 p.m.
There was music playing upstairs. A laugh—young, unfamiliar—floated down the stairs.
Mariana paused.
Her heart didn’t race. It sank.
She walked up slowly.
The bedroom door was half open.
Inside, a woman stood in front of Mariana’s mirror, adjusting her hair. She was younger. Early twenties. Red hair tied with a familiar elastic.
The girl froze when she saw Mariana.
“I— I thought—” she stammered.
Mariana spoke gently. “You thought the house was empty?”
The girl swallowed. “Ricardo said… you were still out of town.”
Mariana nodded. “How long have you been coming here?”
The girl hesitated. Then whispered, “Almost a month.”
A month.
Every late-night call.
Every “I’m so tired.”
Every promise whispered into a phone Mariana believed was sacred.
Ricardo appeared in the doorway then, towel around his waist, face draining of color.
“Mariana—this isn’t—”
She raised her hand.
“Please,” she said softly. “Don’t insult us both.”
The girl looked between them, eyes filling with tears. “He told me you were separated.”
Mariana met her gaze. “I believe you.”
Ricardo stepped forward. “She means nothing—”
That’s when Mariana laughed.
It startled all three of them.
“She means enough that you brought her into my bed,” Mariana said. “Enough to wash my sheets for her.”
She turned to the girl. “You can leave. Take your things. I won’t stop you.”
The girl hesitated only a second before grabbing her bag and rushing past them, shame written into every step.
The door slammed.
Silence.
THE TRUTH THAT FOLLOWED
Ricardo reached for Mariana. She stepped back.
“You don’t get to touch me,” she said calmly. “Not ever again.”
“It was a mistake,” he pleaded. “I was lonely. You were gone—”
“I was building our future,” she replied. “You were destroying it.”
He fell to his knees.
“I love you.”
Mariana looked at him the way one looks at a familiar house already burning.
“No,” she said. “You loved the comfort. The meals. The loyalty. Not me.”
She walked into the closet and pulled out a suitcase—the same one she’d arrived with days before.
“You’re leaving?” he asked, voice cracking.
She zipped it shut.
“No,” she said. “You are.”
EPILOGUE
Ricardo moved out that night.
The divorce was finalized six months later. There were tears. Apologies. Promises.
None of them mattered.
Mariana kept the house.
She repainted the bedroom.
Bought new sheets.
Let the rain come in through open windows.
Sometimes, people ask her how she knew.
She answers simply:
“Because love doesn’t leave traces that hurt. Betrayal does.”
And as for that hug—the one that began it all?
She now knows the truth:
Sometimes, the tightest embrace isn’t love.
It’s guilt holding on, hoping you won’t notice it’s already too late.
