And a fake smile sustained with years of fear of being alone.
My name is Margot Salas. I was thirty-four years old and my whole family was convinced that I had just won the lottery by getting engaged to Efraín Villalobos.
Businessman.
Polite.
Attractive.
"A serious man."
That's what my mother, Norma, repeated, as if she were talking about life insurance.
"That man is going to accommodate your existence, daughter.
To accommodate.
He never said he loved.
He never said to care.
Just accommodate.
Because in Zacatecas people still believe that a single woman after thirty begins to become a family problem.
And I was tired of hearing awkward questions at every meal.
"And the children?"
"And the boyfriend?"
"Aren't you missing the train?"
Then Ephraim appeared.
Perfect.
Too perfect.
Always impeccable.
Always smelling like expensive lotion and control.
He never raised his voice in front of others. Never. That was his talent.
It destroyed you slowly.
With elegance.
"Don't wear that lipstick in front of my partners, Margot. You look vulgar.
—Silvana is not a good influence. Divorced women always want to drag others down.
I MARRIED THE PERFECT MAN... UNTIL A WOMAN ON THE STREET WHISPERED TO ME, "IF YOU SIGN TONIGHT, YOU'LL END UP BURIED IN
