At that moment I understood something I had never wanted to accept.
I had lost everything.
My money.
My marriage.
My family.
All because of my pride.
That night I returned to Guadalajara with a feeling of emptiness impossible to describe.
For weeks I searched desperately for work.
I sold my car.
I moved into a small rented room.
The nights were the worst.
The silence of that room forced me to remember.
I remembered Lucía cooking in the small kitchen.
I remembered my son running toward me when I came home from work.
I remembered the sadness in Lucía’s eyes whenever I distrusted her.
Each memory felt like a thorn slowly piercing my heart.
One Sunday afternoon I decided to walk through the park where we used to take our son.
I didn’t expect to see anyone.
But then I heard a small voice behind me.
— Dad…
I turned around.
It was Mateo, my son.
He ran toward me with a huge smile.
— Dad!
He jumped into my arms.
I felt his small arms wrap around my waist.
My heart broke.
— Hello, champ — I whispered.
Then I lifted my gaze.
Lucía was standing a few meters away.
She looked different.
Thinner, but also calmer.
Her eyes were still the same.
