When Marcella looked up at me and quietly said, “You’re the reason Daddy cries at night,” my heart sank in a way I never expected. Her voice was gentle, almost curious, but the words carried the weight of a painful truth.
Across the table sat Dalia, calm and composed. She didn’t shout or storm out. Instead, she leaned forward, steady and quiet, letting the silence speak for itself. Her grace made the moment even heavier.
“I never meant for this to happen,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “He told me you weren’t happy. That you were only together for the kids. He said—”
Dalia cut me off with a soft, humorless laugh. “He’s said that to every woman he’s been involved with,” she replied. “Even before Marcella was born.”
Just eight months earlier, I had met Joel at a wine bar. He was charming, attentive, and made me feel seen. He spoke of a difficult marriage, of wanting more from life—and I believed him. Now, eight months pregnant, I sat across from his wife.
Dalia gently asked her children to wait outside. When they were gone, she looked at me—not with anger, but with empathy.
“I’m not here to punish you,” she said. “I just don’t want my kids to grow up angry. At their father… or at you.”
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