Todos los capítulos de The abandoned wife : Capítulo 1 - Capítulo 10

GraciasIt is 9:47 p.m. I look at the wall clock for the third time in less than a minute, without really seeing the second hand move, without hearing the quiet ticking that punctuates the stifling silence of the apartment. The roast I prepared with such care has been sitting in its dish for hours now, lukewarm at best, dry most likely, and the candles I lit in the late afternoon now give off only a flickering light, barely alive, like me tonight.The white tablecloth I chose this morning after much hesitation, ironed with an application that bordered on tenderness, suddenly seems out of place, almost arrogant in its spotless perfection. Three plates. Aligned with an exactness that has become absurd. One for him, one for me… and a third, set down without his knowledge. An empty plate. Offered to the silence, or to hope. I no longer quite know which.Today marks exactly three years. Three years since we spoke vows that no one was truly listening to. Three years since we committed ourse

GraciasI did not leave.They did.My sister and Marius left the bar like two actors satisfied with their performance, hand in hand, gaze proud, shoulders high. As if they had just closed an act, without turning around, without shame, without embarrassment.And I simply ceased to exist in their eyes.I remained standing for a long moment. Anesthetized. Then I came back into the bar, my heart in apnea. Back straight so as not to falter.I was no longer moving. I was that woman one leaves behind. That woman one erases, slowly, without sound.Then my legs gave way. I let myself slide onto a stool, at the far end of the counter, where the light is weak, where no one looks at you too long.A couple was laughing loudly nearby. I felt foreign to this world, foreign to this life.The bartender lifted his eyes. His gaze was dry, neutral. He did not need to ask a question to understand. He simply raised an eyebrow."Something to drink?"My throat was dry. My belly, an open wound. My mind, a des

Gracias I say nothing. Not a word. Not a sigh. Not even a tear. He walks me back to my black car — silent, leather warm, engine purring softly. The windows are tinted. The world stays outside. "If you need anything at all… call me." He hands me a card. Matte paper, off-white, sober, almost solemn. A gilded initial. A phone number. Nothing else. No name. Just a suspended promise. I take it the way one grabs a rope at the edge of the void. He does not kiss me. He does not touch me. He does not hold me back. He looks at me for a long time. As if he truly saw me. Me. In what I show no one. His gaze passes through me. Leaves me bare. And strangely, it does not frighten me. I get into my car. I start it. My hands barely tremble. I drive. The city is a succession of blurred lights, smeared neon, silhouettes laughing too loudly. I hear nothing. I float. I go, without really advancing. When I arrive in front of the house, the gate is ajar. Always that negligence. That carelessness

Gracias I'm no longer quite sure if I really heard his voice say I'm coming to get you, or if my exhausted mind embroidered that phrase like a lifebuoy, one last thread hooked inside my ribcage ready to give way. But a few minutes later, the phone vibrates in my frozen palm, my fingers sticky with water and night. Text message: "I'll be there in twenty minutes. Don't move. Stay visible. I'm in a gray car." Stay visible. Those two words burn me as much as the rain devouring my bones. Because I no longer know how to do that , be visible, exist, stand upright in another person's gaze without disappearing immediately into discomfort or shame. So I press myself against an anonymous porch, that of a grimy building with a cracked threshold, and I wait. Arms wrapped tightly around myself. Heart in my throat. My legs like two frozen stakes under these pajamas that weigh the weight of a shipwreck. The city no longer belongs to me. It has become this immense, foreign beast that spits in my

Inès I laugh as I bite into a green apple. It's sour, juicy, sharp. Perfect. I'm naked under Marius's shirt, sitting on the kitchen counter. My legs swing gently in the void while he makes scrambled eggs. He never cooks, usually. But this morning, he wants to "take care of me." He wants to play the tender man, the attentive future father. It amuses him. It gives him the illusion of being a decent guy. And I like playing that game. The fake is often more delicious than the real. "Are you going to add cheese?" I ask, watching him. "Of course. Madame is demanding," he says with that half-smile he serves me when he wants to make me believe he's still capable of irony. He isn't anymore. Not really. Since she left, he's become docile. A kind of dog beaten too long who ends up licking the hand of the executioner. And that smile , I stole it from Gracias. Like everything else. The house. The bed. The husband. And now… the baby. I set the apple down, slowly. I slide off the co