My husband, Javier Morales, kissed my forehead outside our home and offered that familiar, steady smile—one I had long stopped questioning.

“France. Just a brief work trip,” he said, straightening his coat.

I was eight months pregnant, exhausted, and in no condition to argue. I wished him a safe journey, shut the door behind him, and had no idea that quiet moment would become the line dividing my life in two.

A few hours later, the hospital air reeked of antiseptic and dread. Labor had started too soon, everything moving at a frightening speed. When I finally came out of surgery, still foggy from anesthesia, I asked for Javier. The nurse paused, glanced at her tablet, then gestured vaguely down the hall.

“He’s… with his family,” she said softly.

That’s when I saw him.

Javier was standing against the wall, cradling a newborn. Not my child. I knew it instantly. His hands shook as he murmured gentle words in a voice I barely recognized. Across from him stood a young woman with dark hair—tired, pale, yet smiling. Lucía Fernández. I had never met her, but the truth hit me with brutal clarity.

I didn’t shout. I didn’t cry. Something inside me sealed itself shut, cold and final. Javier looked up, our eyes locked, and all the color drained from his face. His lips moved, but nothing came out.

I turned away without a word, lowered myself into a chair, pulled out my phone, and inhaled slowly. For years, I had managed everything financial—accounts, investments, property. Javier trusted me fully. He always said I was “the numbers person.” He was right.