As I walked through the streets of my hometown, my steps felt heavy, as if I were carrying stones in my shoes. Rafa's words kept circling in my head like wounded birds: "You have the right to be happy too." How was I supposed to trust anyone again after what I'd been through? If I could shout it from the rooftops, I would — never fall in love with someone who hasn't closed their past chapters, with someone who carries another woman in their heart like a hidden treasure. Because you'll only ever live in the shadow of that memory, an imperfect copy of someone you're not, with no place of your own in a story that was never yours to begin with.
I still remember how I met Octavio in our final year of university. We ended up in the same modern literature class, and from the very first moment he looked at me with those deep brown eyes, my feelings began to bloom like a lotus flower opening its petals to the first ray of sun. When the course ended, I worked up the courage to invite him to dinner at a small restaurant on the main plaza. I asked him to be my boyfriend with trembling hands and a shaking voice. When he said yes with that smile that stole my breath, I felt my heart pound so hard it might burst out of my chest.
I never noticed a single sign that something was wrong. His family welcomed me as if I were one of their own. His mother embraced me with warmth, his father praised my good manners, and Nadia, his sister, seemed happy to have a sister-in-law. Two years later, we got married. I was the happiest woman in the world, convinced I'd found my place in the universe. I supported Octavio in his career, made his coffee with exactly two sugars every morning, ironed his suit with care, and listened to him for hours when he came home tired from work. I did everything I could to turn our home into a paradise — a refuge where he could find peace.
I truly was blissful during those four years. But life is no fairy tale, and sometimes it acts like a wicked bitch who gets her kicks from shredding the most beautiful dreams. I remember that night with perfect clarity.
I came home after twelve hours of work, exhausted but eager to prepare the dinner we'd planned. In the entryway of the living room, I saw something that froze my blood — a large pink leather suitcase, a pair of high-heeled shoes that weren't mine, and a trail of perfume that was completely foreign to me. My stomach clenched, and I had to grab the wall to keep from falling.
Cheerful laughter drifted from the kitchen. I recognized Octavio's and Nadia's, but there was another voice — sweet and melodic — that I didn't know. My husband was the first to see me. He came out of the kitchen with a gleam in his eyes I'd never seen before. He was so happy, so radiant, that I didn't recognize the man I'd shared my life with for years.
"Honey, look," "he said, taking my hand tenderly."This is Roxana, a very dear friend of my family.
Friend? Her face did look familiar. I'd seen plenty of photos at my mother-in-law's house — Octavio, Nadia, and this woman, smiling together at the beach, at birthday parties, on countryside outings. Every time I asked who she was, the answer was always the same: "She's my best friend," "She's the sweetest person," "The whole family adores her."
I didn't think much of it at the time. I was never a jealous woman. I didn't let myself be swayed by appearances or rumors. Though it was true that Roxana was extraordinarily beautiful — long blonde hair like a river of gold, eyes that seemed to see right through to the bottom of your soul, and a presence that filled any room she entered. After the introductions, Octavio informed me she'd be staying with us for "a short while."
Within weeks, I no longer recognized my own home. Roxana took over the guest bedroom next to ours, and little by little, she changed every corner. She replaced my cotton curtains with cream-colored silk ones, rearranged the furniture to give the living room "more light," hung her photos on walls where I'd once placed artwork I'd chosen with such care. My space, my home, was vanishing like smoke in the sun.
One afternoon, I came home early from work and found her in the living room wearing tight shorts and a sleeveless blouse that bared her shoulders. She was walking barefoot across the hardwood floors as if she owned the place, laughing with Nadia while they rummaged through the fridge. As if she weren't invading the intimacy of a newlywed couple. As if I didn't exist.
Determined to reclaim my territory, I approached her with clenched fists.
"Roxana... what do you think you're doing?"
She turned to me with an ironic smile, as if my question were the dumbest thing she'd ever heard.
"Oh, Briella! You're home... don't be such a buzzkill," "she said, flipping her hair from one side to the other."
Behind her, Nadia appeared, taking her side with that infuriating calm she always had.
"Sis, come on,"she whispered, taking my arm. "It's a beautiful day. We should be enjoying the outdoors. Don't sweat the small stuff."
The entire time she was there, Roxana never showed the slightest interest in getting to know me. She ignored me like I was just another piece of furniture, referred to me in the third person while I was standing right there, and never once invited me to join her outings or her chats with Nadia. I felt like the unwelcome guest in the home I'd built with so much love.
When Octavio came home that night, I asked him to explain how much longer she'd be staying. The weeks had turned into months, and that "short while" seemed to have no end in sight.
"I'm uncomfortable,"I told him, my voice trembling with emotion. "We don't have a single corner left where we can just be a couple. Can't she stay with your mother and sister?"
He shrugged, not meeting my eyes — another sign I should have caught.
"She's going through a rough time," "he replied coldly."Don't be mean, Briella. She needs us. Besides, you know my mother and sister are never home.
I didn't understand my husband. He'd never been a particularly generous man — quite stingy, actually — and suddenly he was willing to let a stranger invade our lives. On top of that, we stopped being intimate. He said we needed to "respect our guest," that it wasn't appropriate to do things in the house while she was there. When I pushed back, his answer was always the same:
"She's my lifelong best friend, Briella. The three of us grew up together. I can't leave her alone in this situation."
But that line — "she's going through a rough time" — never added up. Roxana didn't act like someone who was suffering. She spent her days shopping at the most expensive boutiques in the city, went out with friends until late, and when she was home, she was all smiles — radiant and carefree. But I kept quiet. I kept trying to be the understanding wife he deserved.
Two weeks before our wedding anniversary, I pinned all my hopes on that day. I'd planned everything meticulously — a weekend at the hotel where we'd spent our honeymoon, a romantic dinner on the terrace overlooking the lake. I'd even bought him the leather wristwatch he'd been eyeing in the jewelry store window downtown.
The big day came, and I went to pick him up at his office with the suitcase packed and the gift wrapped in gold ribbon. But the confused look on his face, the surprise twisting his features, made it perfectly clear — he'd forgotten entirely.
"I'm sorry, honey... I... I can't go away this weekend,"he began, his voice low and evasive.
"We're not going?" "I asked, clinging to the last drop of hope left in my chest."
"We can go out for dinner somewhere," "he said, stroking my cheek."But the trip's off. I promise I'll make it up to you later, babe.
"Fine,"I answered, feeling my heart shatter into a thousand pieces, tears burning my eyes. "Let's go to dinner, then."
That night, for the first time in a long while, Octavio smiled at me with genuine affection. He seemed to really love the watch. We ended the night in a hotel room, because we couldn't even be alone as a couple in our own house anymore. Lying in bed together, a question that had been tormenting me for days slipped out before I could stop it.
"Octavio... do you think Roxana is pretty?"
He held me tight, pressing his face into my hair.
"Briella, she's like another sister to me,"he whispered. "The three of us grew up together. You're the only beautiful woman in my eyes."
I was stupid. Naive. Blind. There's no way to justify why I kept staying in a place that was no longer my home, with a man who was no longer my husband.
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