Chapter 7 - The Pages in the Drawer
He deleted the message.
I had already saved it.
My hands shook so badly that Elena took the phone when I showed her.
“Don’t respond yet.”
“What practice pages?”
“We don’t know.”
But I did know one thing.
Someone had practiced being me.
Elena sent a formal request that documents related to the property listing and company inquiry be preserved.
She also contacted Rosa’s lawyer.
By noon, the real estate agent had supplied the full email chain.
Marco had first approached her while I was still pregnant.
Not after a sleepless night.
Not during some sudden financial emergency at the hospital.
Weeks earlier.
The agent had asked twice to speak directly with me.
Marco had replied that I was on medical rest and preferred that he handle everything.
He had attached the authorization.
Then he had offered a discount for a quick transaction.
I read the emails from bed while Mateo slept beside me.
At the bottom of one chain was a line that made my chest tighten.
My wife is emotional about the property. Please direct all questions to me.
Emotional.
A useful word.
It could turn refusal into confusion and ownership into an inconvenience.
That afternoon, the housekeeper called.
She had stayed behind the previous day to finish collecting the belongings on our agreed list.
A nursery drawer had jammed on a stack of papers.
“I didn’t throw anything out,” she said. “I put them in the bag with your hospital forms.”
Elena waited until I was ready before we opened it.
Feeding notes.
Discharge instructions.
A receipt for baby wipes.
And seven pages covered in my name.
Julia.
Julia.
Julia.
Some signatures leaned too far right.
Some had a long, careless tail.
The final page looked close enough to make me cold.
Behind it was a photocopy of an old insurance form.
My real signature circled in red.
I sat very still.
Two years of marriage had given Marco access to my drawers, my identification, my habits.
He had turned familiarity into equipment.
Elena placed each page in a separate sleeve.
“We’ll document where these were found and who handled them.”
I looked toward the bassinet.
Mateo stretched in his sleep.
Such a small movement.
Such complete trust.
That evening, Marco called from an unfamiliar number.
“I know how this looks,” he began.
“Tell me whose handwriting is on those pages.”
He said nothing.
“Marco.”
May you like
Then, barely above a whisper:
“Please don’t make me choose between my mother and my son.”
