During breakfast, my husband threw boiling coffee in my face because I refused to give my credit card to his sister.

Sergio finally seemed to notice the empty shelves.

The cupboard is half empty.

The laptop is missing.

The boxes were stacked near the door.

His expression changed again, but this time the confusion was deeper.

"What did you take?" he asked.

"My own business," I replied.

"This is my home too."

"No," I replied calmly. "That's not the case."

Rocío frowned.

“What does this mean?”

I turned towards the hallway where the documents relating to the purchase of the property were stored, remembering the day I had signed them, years before I even met Sergio.

"This apartment is in my name," I said.

Sergio blinked.

"These are just administrative formalities."

"No," the officer gently corrected. "Legally, that's not the case."

For a second, Sergio felt as if the ground had given way beneath his feet.

"Are you going to throw me out?"

The question seemed almost childish.

I studied his face.
For years, I had waited for moments when he would show remorse, doubt, or even a hint of vulnerability.

But that moment had finally arrived, and what I felt was not satisfaction.

Just exhaustion.

"I'm not throwing you out," I said.

"I'm leaving."

This distinction seemed to disturb him even more.

Rocío looked at us in turn, clearly calculating what this implied for her own comfort.

"So, where are you going?" she asked.

"I don't know yet."