Chapter 17 - The Divorce Party Nobody ExpectedI did not plan a divorce party.
My mother did.
She claimed it was not a party.
“It is dinner,” she said.
“With balloons?”
“For Camila.”
“With a cake that says ‘New Beginning’?”
“That is not divorce. That is optimism.”
“With Sofía, Paula, Inés, Dr. Salinas, and half the women from the building invited?”
My mother lifted her chin.
“You needed better witnesses.”
I could not argue with that.
So on a Saturday evening three months after the balcony, we gathered in my renovated apartment around the round table.
No lobster.
No imported wine.
No performance.
Just chicken mole, rice, roasted vegetables, warm tortillas, fruit, juice, coffee, and a vanilla cake with yellow flowers because Camila liked yellow now.
The apartment felt different with people who did not take ownership of the air.
Inés brought knitted socks for Camila.
Paula brought a ridiculous board game.
Sofía brought champagne and a folder.
“Please tell me that is not work,” I said.
“It is victory paperwork.”
She handed me the final divorce decree.
Signed.
Stamped.
Done.
Daniel Robles was no longer my husband.
The room quieted.
For a moment, I felt nothing.
Then I felt everything.
Relief did not arrive like fireworks.
It arrived like taking off shoes that had been hurting for years.
My mother hugged me first.
Then Paula.
Then Inés.
Sofía raised her glass.
“To Mariana,” she said. “Who funded a kingdom, escaped it, and kept the receipts.”
Everyone laughed.
Even me.
Camila tugged my sleeve.
“Are we happy?”
I knelt.
“We are many things.”
“Safe?”
“Yes.”
She nodded. “Then happy can come later.”
The adults went silent.
Dr. Salinas smiled softly.
“That is very wise.”
Camila accepted this as obvious and returned to arranging strawberries on her cake slice.
Later that evening, Daniel called for his scheduled video chat.
I took it in Camila’s room, as agreed. He appeared on screen in his small apartment kitchen. Behind him was a pan on the stove and a plate of pancakes that looked, frankly, terrible.
Camila giggled.
“Daddy, they’re crooked.”
“I know,” he said. “I made them myself.”
“Did you burn them?”
“A little.”
“Mommy doesn’t burn pancakes.”
“I know. Mommy is better at many things.”
I watched him carefully.
He did not look at me when he said it.
Good.
The call lasted ten minutes. Camila showed him her yellow curtains. He told her he had started a class about being a better parent. She asked if he got homework.
“Yes,” he said.
“Good,” Camila replied. “Homework helps people learn.”
After the call, she seemed calm.
Not thrilled.
Not frightened.
Calm.
That was enough.
When the guests left, I stood on the balcony alone.
The same balcony.
The door open behind me.
The childproof alarm temporarily silenced.
The city stretched beneath me, bright and indifferent.
I had thought about selling the apartment. For weeks, I could not imagine staying where my daughter had suffered. But Dr. Salinas had asked me something important.
“Do you want to leave because it is best, or because you believe the place belongs to what happened?”
So I stayed long enough to decide.
Carmen did not get to keep my home as a monument to pain.
We changed the balcony.
We changed the dining room.
We changed the locks.
We changed the story.
Behind me, Camila stepped onto the threshold.
She did not come outside yet.
That was okay.
“Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“Can balconies be safe?”
I turned.
“With good rules and good grown-ups, yes.”
She thought about that.
Then she took one small step onto the balcony.
I held out my hand.
She took it.
We stood there together for five seconds.
Then ten.
Then she said, “I want to go inside now.”
So we did.
Immediately.
No questions.
No lessons.
Inside, she climbed into bed with Nube and fell asleep quickly.
I returned to the kitchen and found my mother washing dishes though I had told her not to.
“She is brave,” my mother said.
“Yes.”
“So are you.”
“I don’t feel brave.”
“Brave rarely does.”
A message arrived from Sofía.
Carmen’s lawyer wants to discuss settlement.
I looked at it.
Then put the phone facedown.
Tomorrow.
For once, tomorrow could wait.
That night, I slept in my own bed.
Alone.
May you like
Not lonely.
There is a difference.
