Chapter 2 - The Empty Living Room
The emergency department documented superficial and partial-thickness burns along my cheek, neck, and upper chest.
A nurse named Camille asked me one question.
“Did someone do this to you?”
I hesitated.
Only three seconds.
Maybe four.
But afterward, those seconds bothered me more than I expected.
Even with my face burning, some piece of me was still trying to protect Sergio from the consequences of what Sergio had done.
Then I said:
“My husband.”
Camille’s expression changed.
“Do you feel safe going home?”
“No.”
It was the most honest word I had spoken about my marriage in years.
Police took my statement.
I showed them Sergio’s messages.
YOU’RE BEING RIDICULOUS.
Then:
I DIDN’T KNOW THE COFFEE WAS THAT HOT.
Then:
DON’T TURN ONE ARGUMENT INTO SOME DOMESTIC VIOLENCE THING.
And finally:
ROCÍO STILL NEEDS THE CARD BTW.
The officer read the last one twice.
Later, with police aware and my attorney guiding me, I returned only to retrieve property I could document as mine.
Premarital belongings.
Work equipment.
Clothes.
Jewelry inherited from my mother.
Furniture I purchased before Sergio moved in.
The townhouse itself had been mine for three years before our wedding. I did not pretend that meant I could instantly remove my husband without legal process.
That problem would be handled separately.
But when the movers finished, another truth became embarrassingly visible.
Almost everything Sergio described as “our lifestyle” had originally belonged to me.
The sectional.
Mine.
The eighty-inch television.
Mine.
Dining table.
Mine.
Espresso machine.
Mine.
Artwork.
Mine.
Home-office equipment.
Mine.
Even the Mercedes Sergio called “my car” was leased solely in my name.
Its spare keys went with me.
At 7:20 that evening, Sergio returned with Rocío.
A doorbell camera later showed her stepping inside carrying two empty luxury shopping bags.
She had literally arrived planning to shop in my closet for free.
Rocío stopped.
“What the hell?”
Sergio stared at the nearly empty living room.
“Where’s the TV?”
Rocío asked, “Where’s the mirror?”
Then:
“She took the handbags?”
But Sergio was no longer looking at the furniture.
He ran toward my office.
Three seconds.
Four.
Then the camera caught him coming back out.
White-faced.
He called me.
I declined.
Again.
Declined.
Then my phone lit up with a text.
WHERE IS THE BLUE FRAME?
I was sitting across from my attorney, Marcus Reed.
He looked at my screen.
“What blue frame?”
I frowned.
One of the movers had packed an old stock certificate hanging over my office bookshelf.
Faded paper.
Cheap blue wooden frame.
It had belonged to my grandfather.
“I have it.”
“Why does Sergio care?”
“I don’t know.”
Marcus leaned back.
“Good.”
I stared at him.
“Good?”
“Don’t ask him.”
“Why?”
“People tell you more when they think you don’t understand what matters.”
May you like
He held out his hand.
“Show me the frame.”
