Two years after my husband divorced me and married my best friend, I was hiding under the bridge, freezing cold, my clothes clinging to my body and my pride shattered, when a luxurious black SUV screeched to a halt in front of me; the rear door opened and, to my horror, my wealthy father-in-law stepped out, pale, his voice trembling as he looked at me as if he saw a ghost and muttered, “Get in the car, I was told you were de.ad.”

I sat in the back seat of the SUV, clutching my backpack against my chest as if it were a shield. The interior smelled of new leather and the subtle, expensive cologne that always surrounded Ernesto. Through the window I watched the bridge fade into the distance, its dirty silhouette shrinking as we drove toward the illuminated city.

“Take this,” Ernesto said, handing me a small bottle of water and a chocolate bar.

I devoured it in silence. I felt the warmth and sugar rush to my head, mixed with a dull shame. He watched me out of the corner of his eye, as if trying to reconcile the image of this ragged woman with the bride in a white dress who once called him “Dad” in the church of San Ginés.

“Where are we going?” I finally asked.

“Home,” he replied. “My house. The same one as always.”

The one in La Moraleja. The villa with the swimming pool where summers smelled of chlorine, barbecue, and happy laughter. I remembered the nights of gin-and-tonics on the terrace, Javier telling jokes, Lucía… Lucía sharing confidences about her failed romances. Before my husband stopped looking at me and started looking at her instead.

I tightened my grip on the backpack.