The months that followed were quieter than I expected.
Valentina did what people like her often do when spectacle fails: she tried smaller doors.
She sent a long email accusing me of turning everyone against her.
I did not answer.
She mailed back the photocopies of the journal pages with a note that said I had always been jealous of her.
I filed the note away and did not answer that either.
When the baby was born, my mother texted me a photograph and asked for nothing. I sent a small gift for my niece with no card attached. The child had done nothing wrong. But I kept my distance from her mother.
Martín moved into a separate apartment before the birth. He and Valentina did not build a life together, because there had never been anything sturdy enough to build on. He sent me one final message, not to reopen contact, but to say he had started therapy and that he understood remorse was not the same as repair.
I did not respond.
Some chapters do not need correspondence. They need closure.
Diego and I found our rhythm slowly, then all at once.
Marriage, as it turned out, was not made dramatic by the chaos that preceded it. It was made beautiful by ordinary things.