"Six months?" he asked. Sofia nodded. "Physical the whole time?"
"Since the second month." "Did you ever plan to leave me?" Her answer came too slowly. "I thought about it."
Miguel sat on the edge of the bed. That sentence was worse than the watch.
Sofia moved toward him, then stopped before touching him. She said she had been angry for years about how much of their marriage revolved around his work rotations. She had hated being the default parent, the emergency contact, the person who handled fevers, homework, home repairs, bills, and loneliness while Miguel worked fourteen-hour shifts offshore. Every time he came home, he arrived exhausted and expected family life to resume on command, then left again just as the routines began to feel shared. None of that excused what she had done, she said, but it was part of how she had let herself justify the first boundary crossed.
Miguel listened because some of it was true. His job paid well enough for the comfortable house, Sofia's business risk, Lucia's activities, retirement savings, and the emergency fund they had once congratulated themselves for building. But money had hidden a cost he preferred not to calculate. Miguel missed things. Sofia carried things.