The color began to slowly fade, as if someone were draining the blood from within.

—It’s from Dr. Esteban Fuentes, a fertility specialist. Yes, the same one we went to three years ago after you insisted I was sterile. The same one you asked to explain to me “once and for all” why I couldn’t give you children.

A murmur rippled through the room.

Paola had completely stopped smiling. Her fingers trembled on the open box.

“Valeria…” Ricardo murmured, now with real fear. “Don’t do this.”

I looked him straight in the eye.

—You already did it.

I went back to the guests.

—That day, the doctor reviewed all our tests. Mine came back normal. I could have children. The problem wasn’t mine.

I paused.

I saw several of Ricardo’s associates exchange glances. A cousin of his opened her mouth. One of my neighbors, invited only out of obligation, put her hand to her chest.

“The problem was you, Ricardo,” I said clearly. “According to that study, you were infertile. Not partially. Not with difficulty. Clinically conclusively infertile.”

The silence became total.

Not even the background music survived.

Paola took a step back.

“No…” she whispered. “No, that can’t be.”

Ricardo then lunged towards me, but two of his own associates, more out of social instinct than nobility, held him back by the arms.

“Behave yourself,” one whispered, squeezing his elbow. “You’re in public.”

He barely struggled, humiliated, trapped not by real strength but by shame.

Doña Carmen was pale.

“Lies!” he shouted. “That’s a lie! I always knew this woman was a viper!”

I lifted the second sheet.

—Here’s the doctor’s signature. Here’s the diagnosis. And here’s the date. Three years before Paola showed up at my house pregnant, saying she was expecting Ricardo’s child.

Paola began to shake her head repeatedly.

—No. No. He… he told me that you two never could because you were sick. He showed me some test results…

I smiled bitterly.

—I’m sure of it. Ricardo was always good at editing reality.

Now it was Ricardo who paled even more.

Because the other half was still missing.

“But don’t worry,” I continued. “I didn’t come here to expose just one lie. I came here to expose them all.”

I took another small, sealed envelope out of the box.

—Two weeks ago, while you were forcing me to choose napkins, chocolates, and flower arrangements for this charade, I was taking care of some pending matters. Among them, verifying something I already suspected.

Paola looked at me with enormous eyes.

—What did you do?

—The same thing you should have done before moving into someone else’s house thinking you were the victor. Investigate.

I opened the envelope and took out the second test.

—Genetic sample of the alleged father: Ricardo Aguilar. Result: total exclusion of paternity. Probability of paternity: zero percent.