How long? I asked.

Miguel dragged both hands over his face. Carmen cried harder. No one wanted to speak first because the first person would define the cruelty.

Seven months, Carmen whispered.

Seven months.

I did the math instantly, because pain turns people into excellent accountants. Seven months meant the affair had started just after my second miscarriage, when I couldn’t get out of bed for three days and Carmen had sat beside me stroking my hair. Seven months meant that while I was learning how to breathe through grief, the two people I trusted most were building something behind my back.

Miguel began talking quickly after that, the way guilty people do when they think enough words can blur betrayal into confusion. He said it hadn’t been planned.