That night, Alejandro came home much later than expected.
He expected to find me crying.
He expected an argument.
He expected me to be furious like I had been so many times before.
But when he opened the door…
He only found silence.
The house was too quiet.
Santi’s photo was still on the table.
But my suitcase was gone.
My belongings were gone.
Alejandro frowned.
“Fernanda?”
No one answered.
He walked into the bedroom.
The closet was empty.
For the first time in seven years, he felt something unfamiliar in his chest.
It wasn’t anger.
It was fear.
He grabbed his phone and called me.
Once.
Twice.
Five times.
I didn’t answer.
Then he saw a document on the table.
The same one he had signed without reading.
He picked it up.
Read the first page.
Then the second.
And his expression changed.
Divorce petition.
His hands began to tremble.
“No…”
He looked at the signature again.
It was his.
His own hand had signed the end of his marriage.
The man who could sign military orders without hesitation for years had destroyed his own family with a simple movement of a pen.
At that moment, he remembered my words.
He remembered my silence.
He remembered how I had held Santi’s photo.
And for the first time, he understood something terrifying.
I was no longer fighting for him.
The next morning, Alejandro went to the cemetery.
He didn’t know why he went there.
Maybe because he finally understood where my heart had been during those days.
He found me sitting in front of Santi’s grave.
I wasn’t crying.
I was just sitting there.
As if I was saying goodbye.
Alejandro slowly approached.
“Fernanda.”
I stood up.
I looked at him.
And there was no love left in my eyes.
That scared him more than anything.
Because for years, he had believed my anger meant I still cared.
But now there was no anger.
No accusations.
Only distance.
“Why didn’t you tell me Santi was that serious?”
His voice sounded broken.
I looked at him for a few seconds.
“I called you.”
His expression changed.
“I couldn’t answer.”
“I know.”
“I was busy.”
“I know.”
Every calm response hurt more than a scream.
Alejandro lowered his head.
“Fernanda…”
“I called you when I was afraid.”
“I called you when the doctors said they didn’t know if he would survive.”
“I called you when our son asked about you.”
My voice didn’t shake.
“And you chose not to come.”
Silence fell between us.
Alejandro closed his eyes.
Because for the first time, he had no excuse.
He couldn’t say it was a mission.
He couldn’t say it was an emergency.
Because he had been preparing a birthday party.
For someone else.
That afternoon, Valeria came to the military base.
When she heard that Alejandro and I had divorced, she immediately came looking for him.
“Alejandro, I never wanted this to happen.”
He looked at her.
Before, those words would have awakened his instinct to protect her.
But this time, he only felt exhaustion.
“Where were you when Santi died?”
Valeria froze.
“What?”
“My son died waiting for me to arrive.”
His voice was cold.
“And I was celebrating with your daughter.”
Valeria opened her mouth.
But she couldn’t find the words.
Because even she knew there was a truth no one could deny.
Three days later, Alejandro received a call from the general.
“Vargas, have you read the documents?”
“Yes.”
“Fernanda has already left the base.”
Alejandro tightened his grip on the phone.
“Where is she?”
There was silence.
“She went back to her hometown.”
Those words hurt him more than any wound.
Because for years, he believed Fernanda would always be there.
Waiting for him.
Forgiving him.
Loving him.
But the woman who returned to her hometown was no longer the same woman who had arrived at the military base seven years earlier.
The woman who once looked at him with admiration was gone.
Now there was only a mother who had lost her son…
and a husband who had not been there when she needed him the most.
That night, Alejandro opened an old box.
Inside, he found a drawing.
It was from Santi.
A child’s messy drawing of three people holding hands.
Dad.
Mom.
Santi.
At the bottom, there was a sentence written in childish handwriting:
“When Dad comes home, we will be a happy family.”
Alejandro held the paper for a long time.
And finally, he cried.
Because he understood too late that Santi never asked for toys.
He never asked for gifts.
He never asked for a perfect father.
He only asked for one thing.
For his father to come home.
And he never did.
