When I heard my husband telling his friends, between bursts of laughter, that he doubted “this joke of a marriage” would last another year because I “wasn’t even on his level,” something inside me broke—but not in my voice.

“I’m sorry,” “I exaggerated,” “I miss you,” “come home and we’ll talk,” filled my WhatsApp. He began leaving flowers at my sister’s house, calling my parents in Toledo, showing up at the door of my school.

One afternoon, leaving class, I found him leaning against my car with a bouquet of red roses.

“Lucía, please,” he said, stepping closer. “That night was stupid. You know how guys are when we’re with friends.”

I looked at him as if he were a stranger offering me a flyer on the street.

“Exactly, Javier. Now I know.”

“We can go to therapy, change things…” he insisted, lowering his voice. “You’re not going to throw seven years away over a sentence taken out of context.”

I thought about the bet. About the “transition to a woman at his level.” A faint smile touched my lips.

“I’m not throwing them away,” I replied. “I’m using them.”