My sister fainted on my husband’s coffin and everyone said it was “empathy.”

I paid for Gael’s delivery. I paid for his private school. I bought his first bike. I paid the rent for the apartment where Camila and the boy lived, because Roberto told me:

“Honey, we have to help them. Your sister can’t do it alone. Gael deserves a future. You are an incredible woman for being so generous.”

Roberto adored Gael. He took him to soccer practice, taught him to ride a bike. “He’s the son we never had,” he told me, since I couldn’t have children. It comforted me to see them together.

Until the reading of the will, three days after the funeral.

We were in my living room. My parents, Camila (still dressed in mourning black, even more than me), and little Gael, who was playing with a tablet.

The lawyer opened the envelope.

“Mr. Roberto stipulated a corporate life insurance policy for the sum of 5 million pesos.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. At least I would have security while I reorganized my life.

“However,” the lawyer continued, adjusting his glasses, “two years ago, there was a modification to the beneficiary clause.”

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“100% of the insured sum is designated to an educational and maintenance trust in the name of his recognized biological son: Gael Roberto Martínez.”

Time stopped.

The silence was so thick my ears rang.

I looked at the boy. I looked at Roberto’s photo on the mantle.

Gael had Roberto’s eyes. He had the same shape of ears. How had I been so blind?

“His son?” I whispered.

Camila broke down crying, covering her face.

My parents weren’t surprised. My father, Julián, looked down. My mother immediately went on the defensive.

“Daniela, calm down,” Elena said. “It was an accident. It happened six years ago. Roberto and Camila… well, they drank too much that Christmas. You were traveling. They felt lonely. The boy isn’t to blame.”

“You knew?” I asked, feeling bile rise in my throat.

“We knew when the boy was born,” Julián admitted. “Roberto confessed the truth to us. He begged us not to tell you. He said he loved you, that he didn’t want to lose you. And Camila… well, she’s your sister. We didn’t want to destroy the family. We thought it was better to keep the secret. After all, you couldn’t give Roberto children, and he wanted to be a father. It was a… practical solution.”

“Practical?” I screamed, standing up. “You made me pay for the life of his mistress and his bastard son for six years! I paid for the birth! I paid for school! Roberto asked me for money to ‘help the sister-in-law’ and he was laughing in my face!”

“He wasn’t laughing!” Camila shrieked. “He loved me! Roberto was going to leave you! That trip to the beach wasn’t for business, it was our anniversary! We were going to come back to ask you for a divorce, but he died in my arms!”

There was the truth.

My husband died in bed with my sister, on a trip paid for with my supplementary credit card.

And my parents knew. They allowed me to live a lie, working like a mule to support everyone, while they covered up the vilest betrayal imaginable because it suited them to keep the money flowing from my account.

“I want that money,” Camila said, wiping her tears. “Gael is his son. It’s the law. And Roberto wanted us to be okay. You have your company, you have the house. We have nothing.”

I looked at my parents. I waited for them to say something. To scold her. To defend me.

“Daughter, be reasonable,” my mother said. “The money is for the boy. You have plenty. Don’t be greedy. Besides, grudges are dead and buried now. Let’s go on as before. We are family.”

I laughed. It was a hysterical, broken laugh.