After the funeral

CHAPTER 12: THE WEIGHT OF REALITY

The call came while Valeria was folding laundry.

She almost didn’t answer.

“Valeria Montoya,” the lawyer said, “there’s been a development.”

Her body tensed immediately, like it recognized the threat before her mind did.

“Lucía Herrera has formally requested shared rights to the apartment,” he continued. “She’s also asking for child support recognition.”

Valeria sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, a folded shirt slipping from her hands.

“So it begins,” she said quietly.

After the call ended, she stared at the wall longer than she realized. The warmth of the past days—Tomás’s presence, the ease of her body, the calm that had settled into her mornings—suddenly felt fragile. Temporary.

That night, Sofía cornered her in the kitchen.

“Mom,” she said carefully, “is it true Dad had another family?”

Valeria’s chest tightened. She had known this moment would come—just not how heavy it would feel.

“Yes,” she answered.

Sofía nodded slowly, absorbing it. “And you’re… okay?”

Valeria searched for the truth, not the comfort.

“I’m surviving,” she said. “And I’m trying to be honest.”

Diego watched from the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Does that mean you’re dating now?” he asked.

The question landed sharper than any legal notice.

Valeria inhaled. “It means I’m alive.”

Silence followed—thick, unsettled.

Later, at the gym, Tomás noticed the change immediately.

“You’re somewhere else,” he said.

She didn’t deflect this time. “The past doesn’t know how to stay quiet.”

They sat together on the bench outside, the city humming around them. Valeria told him about the lawyer’s call, about the children, about the fear she hadn’t named yet.

“You don’t have to choose between healing and living,” Tomás said. “They can happen at the same time.”

Valeria looked at him, emotion tightening her throat.

“I’m scared,” she admitted. “Not of you. Of how much this matters.”

He met her gaze steadily. “Then let it matter. Just don’t disappear.”

That night, alone in her house, Valeria opened a drawer she hadn’t touched in weeks. Inside were bank statements, documents, proof of a marriage she no longer recognized.

She closed the drawer firmly.

This wasn’t about the apartment anymore.

It was about who she refused to become again.