My name is Valeria Mendoza, I was thirty-two years old, and I worked as a financial analyst at a logistics company in Mexico City. I was always good with numbers, with contracts, with clear accounts. Maybe that’s why it was so hard for me to understand that, while I was calculating expenses for diapers and pediatrician appointments, my marriage was silently rotting away.
The apartment where we lived, in the Del Valle neighborhood, wasn’t Diego’s. My parents had given it to me before I got married, the fruit of years of work and sacrifice. It was in my name. But I never held it against anyone, because I believed that a home wasn’t built with deeds, but with trust.
