The bank card, the passbook, even the PIN—
I had personally handed all of it to her some time ago.
But there wasn’t a single clause in the divorce agreement that required me to continue supporting her. One call to the bank was all it took to end the transfers. Clean.
Fast. No complications.
My ex-husband, Mauricio, was far too busy at the time attending to Pamela in a luxury maternity clinic in Mexico City. Because his mistress was pregnant, he followed her everywhere, afraid she might leave him.
Family?
His own mother? Responsibility?
Those words had long disappeared from that man’s sense of morality.
That afternoon, my Messenger filled with messages—voice notes one after another, like a storm, each complaint more absurd than the last:
“Rebeca, what’s wrong with you?”
“Where is my mother’s money?”
“Are you really going to let her go hungry?”
I stared at the screen and couldn’t help but laugh.
On the table, the red folder with the divorce papers was answer enough—clearer than any explanation I could give.
Ungrateful?
I swiped away the notifications, didn’t reply, and set my phone aside. My chest felt lighter, filled with a calm I hadn’t experienced in years.
That night, he called.
The phone rang for nearly a minute before I finally answered.
It was 10:41 p.m., and his voice was tight with barely controlled anger.
“Have you lost your mind? That support was humanitarian. If you don’t give my mother money, how do you expect her to live?”
My reply was simple:
“Aren’t you supposed to support her?”
A heavy silence followed on the other end.
I knew perfectly well he was standing next to his so-called “great love,” careful not to raise his voice so as not to wake her.
I had no interest in playing the martyr anymore, so I ended the call.
The next morning, it wasn’t Mauricio who reacted first.
It was his mother, Doña Socorro.
It was still early when she blocked the entrance to my new apartment in Santa Fe. Her hair was messy, her clothes wrinkled, and the moment she saw me, she dropped to her knees.
“Rebeca, please!”
“Don’t take away the only thing I have left!”
“How am I supposed to live now?”
Neighbors began to gather and whisper:
“Isn’t her son a wealthy businessman?”
“Then why is she still depending on her ex-daughter-in-law?”
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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