When I heard my husband telling his friends, between bursts of laughter, that he doubted “this joke of a marriage” would last another year because I “wasn’t even on his level,” something inside me broke—but not in my voice.

“I’d rather tell you in person. Can you meet now? I know it’s late.”

I looked at the time: 00:37. Marta, my sister, was sleeping in the room next door. Madrid was still noisy outside the window, as if the city fed on nights exactly like this one. I hesitated for a few seconds. Then I wrote: