The truth was the remedy that healed my wounds. However, after the initial relief, a new worry arose. I couldn’t depend on Julián forever. Even though he was Lili’s father and treated us with such consideration, I needed to support myself. My pride as a woman wouldn’t allow me to be a permanent burden. I decided to resume my career as an interior designer, which I had put on hold for three years. It wasn’t just about the money to raise my daughter; it was about reclaiming my identity, my passion, and the confidence I had lost.
During dinner, I told Julian my plan. He wasn’t surprised at all. He listened silently, nodded, and offered his full support. “I knew you’d say that,” he said. “Do what makes you happy. I’ll always support you. Just let me know if you need any help.” His understanding touched me deeply. The next day, I started looking for a job. I turned on my old laptop and cleaned off the dust that had accumulated over time. Seeing my old designs on the screen reminded me of who I used to be—an ambitious version of myself.
But when I checked LinkedIn and the job postings, my spirits sank. The demands of the market had increased dramatically. They were asking for proficiency in new rendering programs and management tools that I barely knew. Three years dedicated entirely to being a mother had left me behind. I spent a whole week updating my skills, watching tutorials for new programs, and completely redoing my portfolio. It was much harder than I imagined. There were nights when I wanted to slam my laptop shut in frustration, but I was sitting at the kitchen island.
At 2 a.m., glancing down the hallway where Lili slept, I gritted my teeth and carried on. It was all for her. One afternoon, while scrolling through Instagram during a break, I came across a post from a mutual acquaintance. It was a carousel of photos from a lavish party in the Hamptens, and there they were. Miguel and Chloe, standing side by side, holding hands, beaming. Miguel was wearing a smart linen suit, and Chloe a stunning designer dress.
Her hand rested on her visibly swollen belly. The text read, celebrating the perfect couple, “We can’t wait for the little angel to arrive.” My hand froze on the mouse, and a sharp pain shot through my chest. I had promised myself I would accept the truth and move on, but seeing them basking in a happiness built on the complete destruction of my life and my daughter’s made it impossible to remain calm. They had it all: love, money, and now a baby.
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