For thirty-eight years, my husband went to the bank every single Tuesday. Rain or sunshine. Illness or exhaustion. Even when we traveled, he always arranged things so we’d be home by Monday night.
I used to tease him.
“You’re more faithful to that bank than you are to me, Javier.”
He would smile, kiss my forehead, and answer gently,
“Some routines are what keep a family standing.”
His name was Javier Morales. An accountant. Calm. Methodical. The kind of man people instinctively trusted. I managed the home, the children, our social life. He handled the money.
I never questioned him.
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