While I slept, my husband emptied 500,000 pesos from my account. He went wandering across the city, shopping as though my life were his personal ATM.

The night of the theft, I pretended to be asleep on the sofa.
The tablet sat on the living room table, screen glowing.
A half-finished glass of wine rested beside me.

At three in the morning, I heard her bare feet.
The soft click of the drawer.
The buzz of a notification.

I didn’t move.

By seven, my phone had seventeen alerts: transfers, card links, test payments.

By eleven, Hector was already on a flight to Mexico City for his shopping spree.

I knew because she posted an Instagram story from Mexico City International Airport with the caption:

—Sometimes you have to give yourself what you deserve.

I didn’t cry.
I focused only on what mattered.
I warned Marisol.
And I let her spend.

A week later, he returned.
Loaded with shopping bags.
Smelling of expensive perfume and vanity.

A new gold watch glittered on her wrist, too flashy for her size.
She walked into the house as if returning from a trade show.
Dropped her suitcase in the entryway.
And smiled.