He divorced me when I was 50 and, without a shred of shame, brought his new wife into our house,
the very one we built together brick by brick;he looked me in the eye and told me I was too old, too boring,that I no longer fit into his shiny new life,and while they celebrated their betrayal in what still smelled of my memories,I smiled silently,sold everything behind my back,collected every penny that was owed to me,and, when they least expected it,left them both on the street, facing the cold of their own cruelty.My name is Marta García de la Vega.I am 50 years old.I spent half my life in a spacious apartment in the Chamberí neighborhood of Madrid with my now ex-husband, Javier Ortega, 52, a moderately renowned architect, but with an outsized ego.For years I believed we had a stable marriage.
More routine than passion, yes.But stable.Until one day, an ordinary Tuesday, he arrived late, sat across from me at the dining room table, and blurted out:

“Marta, I want a divorce.”“Is there someone else?” I asked, without even raising my voice.He smiled, as if he could finally say what he’d been thinking for so long.“Yes. And she’s younger. And fun. You… not anymore.”The “fun” one was named Lucía.Thirty-two years old.Interior design influencer. Selfie on every corner of Malasaña.In less than two months, the quickie divorce was signed.Javier insisted it was “best for everyone,” as he paced around the living room that still held my photos, my books, my life.“I’ll leave you the car, Marta, and some money, but I’m keeping the house,” he said one day. “I’ll pay for it, I’ll maintain it. It’s my name that’s on everything.”He said it confidently.Almost contemptuously.And that’s when I realized he had no idea who she’d married.The first thing I did was go see Isabel, my lawyer friend.

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