“I’m at the hospital. They said the viral load is skyrocketing. Diego, please tell me you haven’t touched Mariana.”
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating like a thick layer of dust. Diego’s eyes darted from the phone to the yellow folder on the table. The “business trip” tan he was so proud of suddenly looked like a sickly, jaundiced mask. He reached for the phone, his fingers trembling so violently that he knocked over my cold coffee. The dark liquid pooled across the table, soaking into the medical reports, turning the white paper a muddy brown.
“Don’t touch it,” I whispered. My voice was calm—scarily calm. “You’ve touched enough things that don’t belong to you this week.”
Diego’s breath hitched. He looked at the message again, his face contorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated terror. The arrogance was gone. The “expensive cologne” smell seemed to sour on his skin, replaced by the sharp, metallic scent of cold sweat.
“Mariana… I… she told me it was just a rash,” he stammered, his voice cracking. “She said it was an allergy to the sun. We were in Miami, it made sense! I didn’t think… I didn’t know it was this.”
“You didn’t think,” I repeated, letting the words hang in the air. “That has been the recurring theme of our marriage, hasn’t it? You didn’t think when you lied about Chicago. You didn’t think when you used our joint account to buy her champagne. And you certainly didn’t think when you ignored the email from the Fort Lauderdale clinic three days ago.”
I leaned forward, my shadow falling over him. “But you did see that email, Diego. I checked the logs. You opened it at 2:00 AM on Tuesday. And yet, you stayed. You spent two more nights in that king-sized bed with her. Why? Were you hoping it was a mistake? Or were you just too cowardly to face the fact that your ‘little sister’ had just handed you a death sentence?”
“It’s not a death sentence!” he screamed suddenly, a desperate, pathetic explosion of denial. “Modern medicine… there are treatments! It’s manageable!”
“Manageable?” I laughed, and the sound felt like glass breaking in my throat. “Is that what you’re going to tell our six-year-old daughter? That Daddy’s betrayal is ‘manageable’? That the reason he can’t hug her or kiss her forehead right now is because he was too busy playing ‘Mr. Vargas’ in a hotel room?”
Diego collapsed into the kitchen chair, the same one where he sat every morning to eat the breakfast I made for him. He put his head in his hands, a sob breaking from his chest. It wasn’t a sob of regret for breaking my heart; it was the sob of a man who realized the fire he started had finally reached his own skin.
“What was it, Diego? Which one?” I asked, my voice dropping to a low, lethal hum. “The report mentions a highly resistant strain. Something she picked up months ago and didn’t bother to treat. Something that doesn’t just go away with a round of penicillin. Was it the neurological complications that scared you? Or the part where the report says it’s already progressed to Stage 3 because she ignored the initial symptoms?”
He didn’t answer. He just kept shaking his head, his tears dripping onto the floor.
