At 3:16 a.m., my husband texted me: I married Valeria. I’ve been sleeping with her for ten months. You’re boring and pathetic.” I read the message four times, sitting on the living room couch with the TV on mute, blue light washing over my face like something colder than a slap

his ear.

He shook her off.

“You really want war?” he asked me.

“No,” I replied calmly. “I want silence. War is what people choose after they lose the paperwork.”

His mouth twisted angrily.

Then my phone vibrated.

Unknown number.

Open the door, Mariana. Don’t make us use what we have.

I looked up slowly.

Valeria still held her phone.

Her expression told me she continue reading …