The bank card, the passbook, even the PIN—
I had personally handed all of it to her some time ago.
But there wasn’t a single clause in the divorce agreement that required me to continue supporting her. One call to the bank was all it took to end the transfers. Clean. Fast. No complications.
My ex-husband, Mauricio, was far too busy at the time attending to Pamela in a luxury maternity clinic in Mexico City. Because his mistress was pregnant, he followed her everywhere, afraid she might leave him.
Family? His own mother? Responsibility?
Those words had long disappeared from that man’s sense of morality.
That afternoon, my Messenger filled with messages—voice notes one after another, like a storm, each complaint more absurd than the last:
“Rebeca, what’s wrong with you?”
“Where is my mother’s money?”
“Are you really going to let her go hungry?”
I stared at the screen and couldn’t help but laugh.
On the table, the red folder with the divorce papers was answer enough—clearer than any explanation I could give.
Ungrateful?
There was no longer any connection between me and that family.
I swiped away the notifications, didn’t reply, and set my phone aside. My chest felt lighter, filled with a calm I hadn’t experienced in years.
That night, he called.
The phone rang for nearly a minute before I finally answered. It was 10:41 p.m., and his voice was tight with barely controlled anger.
“Have you lost your mind? That support was humanitarian. If you don’t give my mother money, how do you expect her to live?”
My reply was simple:
“Aren’t you supposed to support her?”
A heavy silence followed on the other end.
I knew perfectly well he was standing next to his so-called “great love,” careful not to raise his voice so as not to wake her. I had no interest in playing the martyr anymore, so I ended the call.
The next morning, it wasn’t Mauricio who reacted first.
It was his mother, Doña Socorro.
It was still early when she blocked the entrance to my new apartment in Santa Fe. Her hair was messy, her clothes wrinkled, and the moment she saw me, she dropped to her knees.
“Rebeca, please!”
“Don’t take away the only thing I have left!”
“How am I supposed to live now?”
Neighbors began to gather and whisper:
“Isn’t her son a wealthy businessman?”
“Then why is she still depending on her ex-daughter-in-law?”
Doña Socorro turned pale. Shame showed clearly on her face, but she still clung to my leg, refusing to let go.
I looked down at her calmly.
“You’ve come to the wrong person.”
“I no longer have any relationship with Mauricio. From now on, ask your son—not me.”
She froze for a moment. Panic filled her eyes. But in the next instant, her expression twisted into fury.
“Even if you’re divorced, you still have to take care of me!” she shouted. “Or was all the affection I showed you fake?!”
That was when I finally laughed.
“Affection?”
“You were the one telling everyone I was infertile.”
“You interfered in our marriage and encouraged him to control my money.”
“When he asked me for money, did he ever treat me like family?”
Each word struck her pride like a blow. She trembled with anger, but had no argument left. The murmurs around us grew louder.
