One quiet afternoon, a golden invitation arrived at my house.
It wasn’t raining, the wind was calm, yet the moment I saw the thick envelope with the name Montemayor stamped on it, I felt a dull thud in my chest.
Carefully, I opened it. It was an invitation to the first birthday party of Franco Montemayor and Jessica Reyes’ son.
I smiled, not out of joy, but because fate can be cruel when it wants to.
On the back of the card was a handwritten note. I recognized the handwriting immediately. Every curve, every stroke was familiar.
And every word was like acid dripping on a wound that had never healed.
He wrote that he wanted me to be there. That I should admire the beauty of his son.
That if I hadn’t been sterile, I would be the mother of his heir.
He added that I shouldn’t worry: I’d be welcome as a godmother. I should come and see how a “real family” is created.
My hands were shaking. Five years of marriage. Five years of guilt because I couldn’t have children.
Five years of believing I was the problem.
From one doctor to another. Tests, injections, treatments. Always me. In everyone’s eyes, he was perfect.
Until the day he came home with a cold look and a lightning-fast decision.
He didn’t want to continue. He needed a woman who could give him a child.
Shortly afterward, Jessica appeared. His secretary. Always smiling, always understanding.
He kicked me out. He took away my dignity. He erased me.
In the eyes of the world, I was the abandoned, sterile wife. Franco, on the other hand, was the successful CEO who had suffered in silence.
I looked at myself in the mirror. My face was calm, but my eyes burned.
“Do you want me to see a real family, Franco? I’ll show you one.”
The day of the party arrived in the grand ballroom of the Presidente InterContinental Hotel in Mexico City.
The chandeliers glittered, the champagne flowed, and the elite were assembled.
