Teresa’s mouth opened. “Rodrigo?”
He did not answer.
Mariana watched the first crack appear between them. For years, Rodrigo had performed wounded masculinity for his mother, letting her believe he was an underappreciated artist trapped by a cold, ambitious wife. He had not told her about the debt. He had not told her that Mariana paid his car insurance, his phone bill, his supplies, his therapy for three months before he quit because the therapist “did not understand creative men.” He had not told her that Mariana’s signature was the only reason they still had walls to rearrange.
Teresa grabbed the paper from his hand. Her eyes scanned it, then narrowed. “Legal tricks.”
“Legal ownership,” Mariana said.
“You trapped him.”
Mariana stared at her. “I protected myself from exactly this conversation.”
Rodrigo threw the papers back onto the table. “So what, Mariana? You’re going to kick out your husband because of one fight?”
“One fight?” she asked softly.
The room chilled.
“One fight was when you forgot my mother’s surgery date because your friend had an open mic. One fight was when your mother told me my scrubs smelled like poverty and you said she didn’t mean it. One fight was when I worked Christmas Eve and came home to both of you eating the dinner I cooked without saving me a plate. One fight was when you told people you were supporting my career because you sometimes picked me up from the train.” She lifted the ruined soup pot from the sink and set it on the counter. “This is not one fight. This is the receipt.”
Teresa’s voice sharpened. “My son deserves respect.”
“So did I.”
“He is a man.”
“He is unemployed.”
Rodrigo flinched.
Teresa raised her hand as if to slap Mariana.
