By 11:30 that night, my truck was packed.
At 11:50, I was parked outside Lara’s house on a quiet street in Coyoacán, my small lantern switched on and the flowerpots arranged neatly. I left his things beneath the awning, set the black suitcase on top, and placed a note where she couldn’t miss it.
Emiliano’s belongings. He’s yours now.
I drove home with the windows down, the March air cutting across my face, and one thought pressing hard inside my chest: I was not going to humiliate myself again over a man who confused love with permission. The moment I got back, I called an emergency locksmith. He changed the locks, reprogrammed the digital entry, and charged me an outrageous amount. I paid it without hesitation. It was still cheaper than sharing a home with betrayal.
The calls began before midnight.
Okay, what did you do?
Answer me. This isn’t funny.
Where’s my stuff?
