That blow was different.

Cold.

“What does that mean?”

Elena closed her eyes.

“I knew him before.”

“Before what?”

“Before you.”

I stared at her.

Eleven years of marriage, and there were still basements in her life where I had never entered.

“Adrián and I were college sweethearts,” she said. “He came back a year ago. At first, we just talked. Then…”

“Then he began to sleep in my bed.”

She didn’t answer.

I went upstairs for the kids.

I wasn’t going to argue anymore that night.

Nicolás carried a small backpack. Sofia was still half asleep, confused, with her pink rabbit in her hand.

“Where are we going?” Elena asked.

“To my sister’s house.”

“You can’t take my children.”

I looked at her.

“Your children? Two hours ago, you were planning to use them to take my house.”

“I never said that.”

I took out my cell phone.

I played the audio.

Her voice filled the room.

“Roberto doesn’t check anything. I put the papers between invoices and account statements, and he signs.”

Elena collapsed into the armchair.

Not because she regretted it.

Because she had lost.

I drove to my sister Patricia’s house, in Echegaray.

Naucalpan at night has a particular sadness. The taco stands keep smoking, the trompo al pastor spins with its pineapple on top, the trucks pass full through Periférico, and still, one can feel completely alone among so many people.

Patricia opened the door in her pajamas.

She didn’t ask anything when she saw my face.

She just took Sofia in her arms and said:

“Come in.”

That night, I slept on an inflatable mattress with my children.

Well, sleep is one way of putting it.

Nicolás woke up twice.

The second time, he asked me:

“Is Mom going to be mad at me?”

I stroked his hair.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But she said that if I talked, you would stop loving me.”

I covered my mouth so I wouldn’t let out a sound that would scare him.

“Nico, listen to me carefully. Nothing an adult does is a child’s fault. Nothing.”

He nodded, but he didn’t quite believe me.

A mother’s lies are not torn out in one night.

The next day, I went to a lawyer recommended by Patricia.

Her name was Marcela Treviño.

A small office, strong coffee, stacked files, and a look that was not impressed by tears.

I showed her the audios, the videos, the receipts, the watch, and the messages where Elena asked me if I had already arrived at the hotel while Adrián was at my house.

Marcela listened to everything without interrupting.

When she finished, she said:

“Infidelity hurts, but legally, the most delicate things here are the children and the documents.”

“What can I do?”

“First, protect them. Second, prevent any movement regarding the house. Third, document what happened. And no confrontations without witnesses.”

She explained that I couldn’t act like a wounded man if I wanted to protect Nicolás and Sofia.

I had to act like a father.

We went to the Public Prosecutor’s Office.

Then to family court.

Then we asked for measures so that no unauthorized third party could have contact with the children without prior agreement.

It wasn’t quick.

It wasn’t cinematic.

Mexico does not solve a life at a window.

There were lines.

Copies.

Identifications.

Tired officials.

A lady selling pot coffee outside.

Patricia taking care of the children with the patience of a saint.

I signed sheets with a trembling hand.

I also asked to check the cameras on the street.

A neighbor, Doña Chela, had a camera pointed right at the gate. It wasn’t from the C5 or anything official. It was a cheap camera her son had installed after a mirror was stolen from her car.

“Oh, Roberto,” she said. “I didn’t want to get involved, but that man came a lot.”

A lot.

Those words took my breath away.

She gave me the videos on a memory drive.

Adrián entering.

Adrián leaving.

By day.

At night.

With Elena.

With bags.

With my children at the door.

With Nicolás looking at the floor.

That afternoon, I returned home accompanied by my lawyer and two relatives.

Not to fight.