he looked me in the eye and told me I was too old, too boring,
that I no longer fit into his shiny new life,
and while they celebrated their betrayal in what still smelled of my memories,
I smiled silently,
sold everything behind my back,
collected every penny that was owed to me,
and, when they least expected it,
left them both on the street, facing the cold of their own cruelty.
My name is Marta García de la Vega.
I am 50 years old.
I spent half my life in a spacious apartment in the Chamberí neighborhood of Madrid with my now ex-husband, Javier Ortega, 52, a moderately renowned architect, but with an outsized ego.
For years I believed we had a stable marriage.
More routine than passion, yes.
But stable.
Until one day, an ordinary Tuesday, he arrived late, sat across from me at the dining room table, and blurted out:
“Marta, I want a divorce.”
“Is there someone else?” I asked, without even raising my voice.
He smiled, as if he could finally say what he’d been thinking for so long.
“Yes. And she’s younger. And fun.
You… not anymore.”
The “fun” one was named Lucía.
Thirty-two years old.
Interior design influencer. Selfie on every corner of Malasaña.
In less than two months, the quickie divorce was signed.
Javier insisted it was “best for everyone,” as he paced around the living room that still held my photos, my books, my life.
“I’ll leave you the car, Marta, and some money, but I’m keeping the house,” he said one day. “I’ll pay for it, I’ll maintain it.
It’s my name that’s on everything.”
He said it confidently.
Almost contemptuously.
And that’s when I realized he had no idea who she’d married.
The first thing I did was go see Isabel, my lawyer friend.
In her office on Serrano Street, she pulled out a thick folder.
“Marta, the house is in both our names. Community property. Even though he paid more, legally it’s fifty-fifty.
If you want, we can force the sale.”
“He says he’s keeping it.”
Isabel shrugged.
“You can negotiate. Or you can be… creative.”
When I got home, Lucía was already settled in.
Her heels clicked in the hallway.
Her high-pitched laughter filled the living room where I used to read in silence.
They’d changed the curtains.
They’d taken down my paintings.
They’d put cheap scented candles everywhere.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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