Ten days before my due date…
My husband placed divorce papers in front of me.
I was sitting on the couch, one hand supporting my swollen waist.
My stomach was so large that every movement felt like carrying a heavy stone.
But Marcos Salazar didn’t even stand up.
He didn’t ask if I was uncomfortable.
He didn’t ask if I needed help.
His eyes stayed fixed on the television.
“Sign.”
Just one word.
Cold.
Emotionless.
Like he was asking me to sign a business contract.
Not the end of our marriage.
I picked up the papers.
The first page was the divorce agreement.
The house purchased during our marriage would remain entirely under Marcos’s name.
I, Valeria Robles, voluntarily gave up all rights.
The family savings would belong mostly to him.
The amount left for me was almost insulting.
My fingers trembled.
I reached for the glass of warm water on the table.
My hand weakened.
The glass almost fell.
Marcos glanced at me.
“Hurry up.”
“Don’t keep dragging this out.”
Then he added:
“My mother paid the down payment for the house.”
“It was never really yours.”
He pointed at the agreement.
“And I earned most of the money.”
“What I’m giving you is already generous.”
I drank the water slowly.
The baby moved inside me.
I lowered my eyes.
“Why?”
Marcos sighed impatiently.
“Why?”
“Because I’m tired.”
Then he looked at me.
At my swollen legs.
My tired face.
My pregnant body.
“Look at you.”
“You gained so much weight.”
“Seeing you like this irritates me.”
I became silent.
The doctor had told me my pregnancy was healthy.
The baby was developing perfectly.
But in his eyes…
I was just a burden.
“And our son?”
Marcos tapped his fingers against his knee.
“He will stay with me after he is born.”
I looked up.
“With you?”
“You don’t have a job.”
“How will you support him?”
His expression was cold.
“My mother already said she will take care of him.”
My nails dug into my palm.
The pain in my hands was nothing compared to the coldness spreading through my chest.
“Marcos.”
“For nine months, I was sick every morning.”
“You watched me suffer.”
“You never said you were tired of me.”
He looked away.
“When I had cramps at night…”
“You slept.”
“I never woke you.”
No answer.
“Your mother came every few days saying I was exaggerating my pregnancy.”
“I never complained.”
I looked at him.
“There are only ten days left until your son is born.”
“And now…”
“You suddenly can’t stand me anymore?”
For a moment, his expression changed.
A flash of guilt.
Then it disappeared.
“This doesn’t matter anymore.”
He pushed the papers closer.
“The marriage is over.”
“You will sign.”
He didn’t threaten me.
He didn’t need to.
Something inside me had been breaking slowly for too long.
I looked at the man I had loved for seven years.
My husband for three.
The father of my child.
And I saw nothing.
No love.
No regret.
No concern.
Only impatience.
He wanted me gone.
I took a breath.
“Give me the pen.”
Marcos looked surprised.
Maybe he expected tears.
Begging.
A desperate scene.
Instead, he opened the drawer and handed me a pen.
I reached the last page.
My hand shook.
But I wrote.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Valeria Robles.
Each letter carried the memories of seven years.
The love.
The sacrifices.
The promises.
Everything.
When I finished, I placed the pen down.
“Tomorrow, I will leave.”
Marcos picked up the agreement.
Checked my signature.
His body relaxed.
A small smile appeared.
“At least you know how to behave.”
Then he added:
“Take all your things before noon.”
“My mother will come in the afternoon to inspect the house.”
I nodded.
I walked into the bedroom.
Closed the door.
Only then did I stop pretending.
The tears came silently.
I covered my mouth so he wouldn’t hear.
My shoulders shook.
The baby moved again.
I placed both hands over my stomach.
“I’m sorry, my son.”
Tears fell onto my lips.
“Maybe I can’t bring you into this house.”
“But I will never abandon you.”
“Never.”
I wiped my face.
Then sent a message to my mother.
Mom, can you come pick me up before dawn?
The reply came immediately.
What happened? Where is Marcos?
I stared at the screen.
Nothing happened.
I just want to come home.
Come early.
Don’t tell him.
My belongings fit into one large suitcase and two bags.
That was all.
Three years of marriage.
And my life could be packed away so easily.
Marcos’s snoring came from the living room.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
I looked around.
The curtains I chose.
The sheets I bought.
The lamps I loved.
Our wedding photo still hung on the wall.
In it, I was smiling.
Marcos’s arm was around my shoulder.
We looked happy.
Now…
it looked like a cruel joke.
Before sunrise, I dragged my suitcase to the door.
I placed the keys on the table.
Then I closed the door quietly.
My mother’s old car was waiting downstairs.
The moment she saw me pregnant and carrying luggage…
her eyes filled with tears.
“Valeria…”
She rushed forward.
I forced a smile.
“Mom.”
“Let’s go first.”
“I’ll explain on the way.”
The car slowly moved away.
The building became smaller in the mirror.
I never looked back.
Marcos got the divorce he wanted.
But the story between us…
had only begun.
We didn’t return to my mother’s hometown.
I asked her to drive to a small coastal town in another province.
Only after we arrived did I tell her everything.
Her hands trembled on the steering wheel.
“We have to go back.”
I looked at her.
“Why?”
“To confront them.”
I smiled bitterly.
“Ten days before giving birth?”
“Should I fight them?”
“Beg them not to take my child?”
My mother became silent.
“The only important thing now…”
“Is that my son is born safely.”
I looked out the window.
“I will handle everything else later.”
My mother wiped away her tears.
“I trust you.”
I nodded.
I needed to trust myself too.
Because at that moment…
I still didn’t know the truth.
Marcos didn’t divorce me because he was tired of my body.
He didn’t leave because pregnancy changed me.
There was another reason.
A name.
A woman.
And a three-month pregnancy.
The woman who had been hiding behind him.
The woman his mother already knew about.
The woman they believed would become the new Mrs. Salazar.
Five years later…
Marcos Salazar would stand at my door.
Unable to even stand properly.
His mother would kneel in front of me.
Begging.
Crying.
Asking me for help.
But by then…
I would no longer be the pregnant woman he abandoned.
I would be the woman he could never reach again.
