“No,” you answer.
Rosa lifts her voice. “Camila, enough of this nonsense.”
You rest one hand on the balcony rail. “The lawyer says all communication goes through counsel now.”
Her face changes.
You can practically hear the word lawyer moving through her mind like an unwelcome draft. Family tyrants always believe law is for strangers, never for sons and daughters and daughters-in-law they assumed they could arrange by guilt.
“Lawyer?” she repeats sharply. “You hired a lawyer against your husband?”
“Yes.”
Diego laughs once, short and angry. “You’re unbelievable.”
“No,” you say. “I was believable for too long. That’s what got us here.”
He takes a step closer to the porch.
“Camila, stop acting like I robbed a bank. These things happen.”
You stare at him in genuine wonder for a moment.
“These things happen,” you repeat.
“Yes. People fall out of love. People make mistakes. She’s having my child.”
Every word he says makes him smaller.
Then you ask the question that changes his face.
“Is it yours?”
Rosa stiffens. Diego’s mouth opens, then closes.
There it is.
The hesitation is brief. But not brief enough.
You feel the ground shift under the entire ridiculous edifice they built around that pregnancy.
“Don’t be disgusting,” Rosa snaps.
You ignore her.
“Is it yours?” you ask again, this time more softly.
Diego’s eyes narrow. “Of course it’s mine.”
But something in the way he says it is wrong now. Too fast. Too flat. Less certainty than demand. As if insisting hard enough might count as proof.
