One quiet afternoon, a golden invitation arrived at my door. It wasn’t raining, there was no wind, but the moment I saw the thick envelope with the Montemayor surname embossed in relief, I felt a sharp blow to my chest.
I opened it carefully. It was an invitation to the first birthday of Franco Montemayor and Jessica Reyes’s son. I smiled—not from happiness, but because fate knows how to be cruel when it wants to be.
On the back of the card was a handwritten message. I recognized the handwriting instantly. Every curve, every stroke was familiar. And every word was acid falling onto a wound that had never fully healed.
It said he wanted to see me there. That he wanted me to admire how beautiful his son was. That if I hadn’t been barren, I would have been the mother of his heir.
It added not to worry, that I could be the godmother. That I should come see how a real family is built.
My hands trembled. Five years of marriage. Five years carrying the guilt of not being able to have children. Five years believing I was the one who had failed.
Doctor after doctor. Tests, injections, treatments. Always me. According to everyone, he was perfect.
Until one day he came home with a cold look and a brief decision. He didn’t want to continue. He needed a woman who could give him a child.
Soon after, Jessica appeared. His secretary. Always smiling, always understanding.
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