Chapter 5 The list of excuses

I try to convince myself-and sometimes I almost succeed-that I have the right to be happy with the only man I love.

I repeat it like a mantra every time he disappears, every time guilt bites my throat, every time I remember his face: Rebeca, the wife, the one with the official contract, the one with the ring, the CPF linked to the same address.

"He doesn't love her. He loves me."

"I deserve it. I waited. I put up with it all."

As if it were a fair equation: I give everything, therefore, I deserve everything in return. But it doesn't work that way. I know it. I know it very well. But I lie to myself because believing the lie is less work than facing the harsh truth: I am the other. I am the deviation. I am the exception to a man who doesn't have the courage to make me the rule.

And yet, I convince myself. I close my eyes in the shower, let the water run, and imagine a perfect day: him knocking on my door with a suitcase, saying, "It's over, Marília. Now it's just you."

Ridiculous. Childish. But that's what keeps me breathing between one absence and the next.

I cling to it like a valid contract. I mentally sign each invisible clause:

He's leaving home.

He'll call me tomorrow.

He's not lying to me, he's lying to her.

I am true love; she is the mistake.

What a joke. I know. But if I don't repeat it to myself, what's left? The empty couch after he leaves. The cold bed. His scent clinging to my skin, reminding me that I'm only half the story. I try to convince myself that I have the right to be happy, because I worked so hard, studied so hard, put up with so many lazy, stuffy bosses and sexist colleagues who called me Marilinha when I became a partner.

"I did everything right. Why can't I do it wrong?"

That's it. I deserve the mistake. I deserve the risk. I deserve Fábio, even though I know it's not just mine.

Maybe I deserve love, or maybe I deserve punishment. I haven't decided yet.

I sit on the cold bathroom floor, back to the closed door, legs bent, elbows on my knees. The water still hits the tiled wall, but it's no longer on me. The towel is lying on the floor, forgotten. My body still throbs hotly, but it's an empty fever that solves nothing.

I rest my head on the cold tile. The coldness of the tile is the only solid thing I have now. The rest is smoke: thoughts, promises, excuses.

I take a deep breath, open my eyes slowly, and watch a drop of water slide down the wall. And then, almost without realizing it, I start my mental list. My Excuse List. It's my intimate, silent ritual: the contract I renew with myself every time Fábio disappears and comes back.

He's going to break up with me.

I repeat it quietly, just to hear the lie spoken aloud. If it were true, I wouldn't need to repeat it. If it were true, he would have already left the house where he sleeps with Rebeca, he would have already brought the suitcase, the dog, the problems. But no. He disappears, then reappears, and I swallow it like someone swallowing expired medicine.

He doesn't love her.

I laugh. A brief laugh. Right? Yes, he loves her. He loves the comfort, the house, the status of exemplary husband he pretends to have. He loves being the man who has it all, even me, hidden in a dark corner, like a secret trophy.

I deserve to feel this.

This is the worst. Because it's almost true. After so many years locking my heart away, so many lukewarm relationships, so many nights curled up against a hard pillow, I think I deserve this disaster. I deserve the butterflies in my stomach, her expensive perfume permeating the sofa, the guilt silently brooding. At least it's real. At least it's strong.

It's not my fault if she lies.

And here I find a twisted relief. The push that makes it all less ugly. It's not my fault if she comes home, lies down on Rebeca's bed, kisses her forehead, and swears she was "fixing things at the office." It's not my fault if she says she's going out and comes back the next day with the same old story. It's not my fault. Or is it? I run my hands through my wet hair, squeeze the back of my neck, close my eyes. I feel the weight of my body, the weight of my morale melting every time my phone vibrates.

I get up. The shower now feels like a confessional. The towel is cold. I wrap it around me like a leaky suit of armor: it covers, but it doesn't protect.

In the bedroom, the phone blinks on the nightstand. Notification: Message deleted.

I pick up the device, unlock the screen. I read the message: the phantom phrase: "Message deleted."

For a second, I wonder what it was. Maybe it was: "I want you again." Maybe it was worse: "I can't see you anymore." Maybe it was just a "Hello." It doesn't matter. It's always bait. And I, a trained fish, bite without hesitation.

I sit on the still-damp bed. I put on an old T-shirt, thrown on haphazardly. Its scent lingers in the air, a trail that lingers even after it's gone.

I open WhatsApp. I see the online status. I see the "typing..." message. I see the disappearance. The silence. The loop that keeps me here.

"Hello."

I delete it.

"Is everything okay?"

I delete it.

"I want you again."

I laugh at the irony. I delete it.

In the end, I drop the phone on the bed. I fall back, staring at the ceiling. I remember my mother saying as a teenager, "Married men don't abandon their wives." I remember laughing. I remember promising, "I'll never be that other woman."

Look, Mom.

The honking of traffic below pretends the world is normal. Outside, people are going to the gym, couples are arguing over a mistaken delivery, someone is doing the dishes, someone is going to bed early. And here I am, Marília Marques, a veteran lawyer, trapped in a clandestine romance that only exists during the hours he allows me.

On the nightstand, a glass of wine from last night is still half full. I take a lukewarm sip. I close my eyes. I let the alcohol mix with the bitter taste of everything I silently swallow.

My phone vibrates. New message. It's him:

"Are you there?"

As if I needed to ask. I always am.

"I am." Before hitting send, I think about what to write: "I don't want to anymore." "Go away." "Find your wife."

Nothing comes out. I hit send in the most cowardly way: "Me."

Three seconds later, the audio arrives:

"I wanted you here," she whispers, as if it's a secret.

I listen. I listen again. Each time, my body tenses as if it's a new promise, even though I know it's old recycling.

I look in the mirror on the closet door. I see my reflection: wet hair, sunken eyes, mouth half-open. A beautiful, intelligent, and fucking weak woman.

"If this were a contract, I'd break it," I say out loud, so no one can hear me.

But it's not a contract. It's a heart. Paper on fire.

The doorbell rings. I swallow.

New message: "I'm downstairs. Will you let me in?"

I take a deep breath. At the door, my reflection looks back at me once more. And it smiles. A bitter smile. The smile of someone who already knows they're about to open the door.

And I open it.