Chapter 10: What Diego Had Paid For
The temporary room was quiet except for the low hum of an old air conditioner. Sofía slept sideways across the narrow bed, still wearing the soft shirt I had pulled over her purple party dress before we left. The dress hung from the back of a chair now, wrinkled beneath the suitcase handle. I had placed the leather belt inside a grocery bag on the highest shelf, where she would not see it when she woke.
I sat at a small table by the window and opened the folder of records I had carried out of the house. Some were printed statements. Others were photographs I had taken from Diego’s screen and copies of pages I had found among our household papers. I arranged them by date, earliest first, keeping the originals separate from my notes.
At first, the transactions looked scattered. A transfer here. A payment there. Amounts that might have been overlooked during months crowded with groceries, bills, and ordinary expenses. Once I put them in order, the spaces between them became regular enough to show intent.
Teresa’s name appeared repeatedly.
I drew a line down the center of a sheet of paper. On the left, I listed only what the records proved: dates, amounts, account names, and transfers connected to Teresa. On the right, I wrote questions. I did not label any payment as rent, debt, or a gift unless the document itself said so. Anger would not make the record stronger. Guessing would only give Diego somewhere to hide.
Sofía stirred and turned toward the wall. One arm slipped from beneath the blanket. Even in the weak light from the window, I could see the mark Teresa had left.
I picked up my phone and added the time to the notes I had made about her arm. I recorded what I had personally seen in the living room: the belt in Teresa’s hand, Sofía cornered beside the purple balloons, Mateo holding the doll, and Diego avoiding my eyes. I kept those observations apart from the financial pages. They belonged to the same betrayal in my mind, but each needed to stand on its own.
Near dawn, I added the confirmed transfers. The total was large enough to explain the balance I had found before leaving. It was also large enough to erase the margin I had believed we possessed—the money I had counted on for a deposit, the first stretch of rent, and the ordinary costs of moving Sofía somewhere stable.
The worst part was not one dramatic withdrawal. It was repetition. Diego had made the household absorb his decisions a little at a time. Resources I believed belonged to our shared plans had been redirected or committed for Teresa without my informed agreement. Each individual entry had been small enough to pass beneath the pressure of daily life. Together, they formed a second budget, one I had never been allowed to see.
I checked every page again. Several payments came from resources I recognized as household money. Others were linked to obligations bearing Diego’s name but drawing against funds we depended on. I marked those distinctions carefully. I could prove the pattern. I could prove its cost. I could not yet prove every conversation or promise behind it.
When Sofía woke, she sat up slowly and looked first at me, then at the suitcase. I closed the folder before helping her wash her face. She remained close enough that her shoulder touched my side. I found the doll among our packed things and placed it where she could reach it. Her fingers closed around it, and some of the tension left her hand.
After she settled again, I returned to the table. One reference on the newest record did not match the accounts I knew. It appeared to be tied to an ongoing commitment rather than a completed transfer, but the copied page did not show its full terms. There was no clear ending date and no complete balance. I could not tell whether the next household payment had already been promised.
I circled the entry once and wrote only what I knew beside it: unresolved.
May you like
The room was safe for that morning. The belt was out of Teresa’s hand, and Sofía was beyond her reach. But the papers showed how little distance Diego had left between us and failure. I gathered the records into chronological order, placed the notes about Sofía’s arm on top, and slid everything back into the folder.
Then I opened the unresolved page again. Whatever Diego had agreed to, it had not finished costing us.
