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The next morning, Mauricio stormed into the kitchen.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“Then talk.”
“Valeria didn’t sleep. She’s devastated. You owe her an apology and fifty thousand pesos.”
I placed my coffee cup down.
“Your wife threw my birthday cake on the floor on purpose.”
“It was just a cake, Mom!”
“No, Mauricio. It was my birthday, my house, and my dignity. She thought she could step on all three.”
Then he said something that made my blood run cold.
“Valeria thinks you haven’t been acting normal. Maybe you shouldn’t be living alone anymore.”
That was when I understood.
Valeria had been preparing this for months.
She had been telling people I forgot things, repeated stories, left the stove on, and needed “younger management.”
After Mauricio left, I went to my room and saw Valeria’s creams, perfumes, brushes, and devices all over my private bathroom.
