I never questioned the language barrier when my Spanish husband spoke with his parents—until my fluent-in-Spanish friend, Patricia, joined us for dinner. Halfway through the meal, she grabbed my arm, her face pale. “You need to talk to your husband. Right now.”
Confused, I forced a smile. “Why?”
She hesitated, glancing at Luis’s parents. “Because they just asked when he’s finally going to tell you about his real wife. In Spain.”
My world tilted. “What?”
Patricia’s eyes didn’t waver. “I didn’t misunderstand. He has a wife. And children.”
Luis stiffened. His mother murmured a quiet prayer, his father sighed. Finally, his mother met my eyes. “Hija, you deserve to know. Luis married another woman years ago. He has two children.”
My stomach clenched. We had been trying for children. How could he?
Luis reached for my hand. “Mi amor, please—”
I yanked away. “How long?”
His father muttered, “Ocho años.”
I swallowed my heartbreak. “Pack your things. Now.”
Days later, with Patricia’s help, I found Sofia—his other wife. She was as blindsided as I was. We joined forces, filing lawsuits for bigamy and fraud. Luis lost his job, his visa was revoked, and his reputation destroyed.
Sofia took full custody of their children. His parents, humiliated, disowned him.
Months later, at the café where I had met Luis, Patricia and I toasted with sangria.
“To karma,” I said, smirking.
“And revenge,” she added. “Best served cold.”
