A woman who trusted too much, worked too hard, remained too long, and eventually stopped confusing endurance with love.
Months after our divorce became final, a reporter asked me whether Victor’s courtroom insult still bothered me.
I thought about it.
Then I answered truthfully.
“No.”
She seemed surprised.
“He called you a pack mule.”
“Yes.”
“And that doesn’t offend you?”
I smiled.
“A mule is strong.”
She laughed.
I continued.
“It survives bad roads. It carries more than people expect. And when somebody spends years loading weight onto its back, the cruelest mistake they can make is believing the animal is too stupid to remember who put it there.”
The reporter stared at me.
Then smiled.
“And Victor?”
I looked through the restaurant window.
Across the dining room.
Past Mateo’s photograph.
Past the employees earning real salaries with written contracts.
Past the kitchen where every maintenance complaint now required immediate written review.
