That night, as she rested her head on Ricardo’s arm, she asked softly:
“During the time I was away… did anyone come to our house?”

Ricardo answered without hesitation:
“Only Hugo came to ask to borrow the drill, no one else.”

Mariana nodded silently, trying to keep her face serene. The smile on her lips was forced. Ricardo didn’t notice anything, or perhaps he pretended not to. He continued hugging her, telling her stories about his work over the past month. But those words, which were supposed to fill the void of distance, now only widened the gap in her heart.

Her sixth sense told her something wasn’t right. A red hair tie. A strange candy wrapper under the bed. Ricardo’s nervous reflex upon receiving a text and turning his phone upside down. It all came together in a painful puzzle.

One night, Mariana waited for Ricardo to fall into a deep sleep. She took his cell phone with trembling hands, hidden under the sheets. Her heart pounded in her chest. She checked calls, messages, social media. At first, nothing unusual. Until a chat appeared with a female name she’d never heard of.

She read. First, innocent phrases. Then, increasingly intimate words. “I miss you so much.” — “I’ll pick you up on Saturday.” — “Dinner was perfect, next time will be better.” — “Good night, love .”

The blow was brutal. The dates coincided exactly with the weeks she’d been in Monterrey. The red garter, the candy, the nervous attitude… it all made sense.

Tears began to roll down her cheeks. Mariana looked at Ricardo’s sleeping face, so calm, so false.
“Did you trick me, Ricardo?” she whispered between stifled sobs.

She ran to the bathroom, locked herself in, and cried until she was exhausted. But when she looked in the mirror, between her haggard face and red eyes, she saw something else: determination. She was no longer the weak woman who had discovered the truth minutes before.

The next morning, she confronted Ricardo. She showed him the red garter.
“Explain this to me.”

He stammered nervously, making excuses: “It must be Hugo’s… he must have left it here…” But Mariana interrupted him with a bitter laugh.

—“Hugo’s? A man wearing red garters? And he’s also the one who texts you saying ‘I miss you, love’? Do you think I’m stupid?”

Ricardo paled. The silence was his confession. When he finally whispered, “Forgive me… I don’t know why I did it…”, Mariana felt her world crumble.

She kicked him out of the house. She cried, she broke down, she called her best friend for comfort. The house, which days before had been a warm refuge, became a cold place, filled with false memories.

Sitting by the window, watching the rain fall on Mexico City, Mariana wondered: How many more tears will I have to shed before I find peace again?

And in the midst of that pain, a certainty was born: the storm would pass, the sun would rise again, and she, though broken, would learn to rise again. Because even the deepest scars, one day, become signs of strength.

The days following Ricardo’s departure were a silent hell.
The house was too big, too empty. Every corner—the sofa, the dining room table, the bed still lingering with his scent—was a stinging reminder of the betrayal. Mariana cried until her tears dried, leaving only a feeling of icy emptiness in her chest.

But amidst that unbearable pain, something began to transform inside her.
A persistent thought kept repeating: “I can’t let this betrayal destroy the rest of my life.”

The first week was the hardest. Mariana barely ate, barely slept. Her friends took turns visiting her, bringing her food, distracting her. One of them said:
“Mariana, no one deserves your tears. Much less someone who didn’t know how to value you.”

That phrase stuck with her. Like a spark in the darkness.

Little by little, Mariana began to regain control. She got up early, dressed carefully even when she didn’t have to go out. She filled the house with fresh flowers, changed the sheets, and painted the bedroom a different color. As if with each change she erased a trace of Ricardo.

At work, she gave her all. Her colleagues admired her for her strength, never imagining the storm she had endured. The projects gave her purpose, a reason to get up every morning. And every time someone recognized her talent, Mariana felt she was recovering a part of herself that Ricardo had never managed to destroy.

Three months later, she was different. Her eyes, though still bearing invisible scars, shone with a new light. She had lost a little weight, but her bearing was firmer, more confident. She had signed up for yoga classes and taken up painting again, a passion she had abandoned for years.

One afternoon, while painting in front of the open window, she heard the rain falling. That same rain that had once accompanied her grief now seemed like a rebirth. She smiled for the first time without feeling the weight of the past.

It wasn’t until then that Ricardo tried to come back.
One night, he appeared in front of her house, soaked from the rain, his eyes red, and his voice cracking.
“Mariana… I was wrong. Forgive me. I can’t live without you.”

Mariana looked at him long and hard from the doorway. She was no longer crying, no longer trembling. Her voice was firm, serene, sharp as a sword:
“I can live without you, Ricardo. And I’m doing better than ever.”

She closed the door.
And with that sharp click, she also closed a chapter of her life.

Months later, Mariana traveled again, this time to Guadalajara, to present a project. There, at a conference, she met new people: colleagues, friends, people with dreams like hers. And among them, someone who looked at her not with a desire to possess her, but with respect, with genuine admiration.

It wasn’t the start of an immediate romance—Mariana wasn’t looking for one yet—but it was the beginning of something much bigger: her rebirth as a free, strong woman, aware of her own worth.