For a moment, I thought I had heard him wrong.
—Sorry?
Then he finally looked at me, wearing that same tired half-smile he used whenever he wanted to dismiss me as overreacting.
—Come on, Elena. You’re home all day. What does a housewife need a luxury car for?
He said it quietly, almost mockingly, like he was explaining something obvious to a careless child. Marta, my eldest daughter, slowly set her spoon down in her bowl. Daniel watched me in silence. I felt a sharp impact in my chest—not anger, but clarity.
Lucía had spent years depending on others. First, her rent was covered by her mother. Then Javier helped her open a beauty salon, which shut down in less than a year. After that came credit cards, “temporary” loans, late-night calls. There was always an excuse. And always, behind everything, was my husband fixing her problems with money that wasn’t entirely his.
“Tell her to return the keys,” I said.
