The scent of freshly brewed espresso and warm churros filled the air as I sat in a quaint café, journaling my thoughts about Barcelona. I was lost in my writing when a deep, velvety voice interrupted me.
“Excuse me, but you look like someone who enjoys good conversation.”
I looked up and met the dark, expressive eyes of a man standing beside my table. His smile was easy, his confidence effortless. And that Spanish accent? It made every word sound like poetry.
I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, unable to keep from smiling. “And what does someone who enjoys good conversation look like?”
He gestured to my journal. “They write when everyone else is taking pictures. They sit alone but look comfortable doing it. They notice things.” He extended his hand. “I’m Luis.”
“Emma,” I replied, shaking his hand.
That moment sparked something neither of us could deny. What started as a casual conversation turned into a whirlwind romance. By the end of my trip, I felt something deep between us, something real.
When I returned to the States, we kept in touch. Weekly calls turned into daily ones. Calls turned into visits. He flew to see me during Thanksgiving. I spent Christmas in Barcelona. By Valentine’s Day, we were making plans that terrified and thrilled me in equal measure.
“I can’t keep saying goodbye to you at airports,” Luis whispered one night over video chat. “I just want to be where you are.”
A year later, Luis moved to the U.S., and we had a beautiful, intimate wedding. From the moment we said “I do,” we dreamed of having children. But the months turned into years, and no baby came. The doctors found nothing wrong, yet every test still turned up negative.
“Maybe it’s not meant to be,” I whispered one night, feeling the weight of disappointment settle on me.
Luis pulled me into his arms. “It’ll happen when it’s meant to, mi corazón.”
Luis was my rock, but his parents? I was never sure where I stood with them.
They only spoke Spanish when they visited, their conversations rapid and fluid, excluding me in my own home. His mother barely made eye contact, and her tight smiles never reached her eyes. His father’s interactions with me were minimal and formal.
“Your parents don’t like me much, do they?” I asked Luis one evening.
“No, no,” he assured me. “They’re just old-fashioned. Don’t worry about it.”
I told myself it was just cultural differences. Maybe they were shy, maybe I should have worked harder to learn Spanish. I brushed off the unease, never suspecting there was something much darker beneath their distance.
Then, one night, everything changed.
My college roommate, Patricia, came over for dinner. She was fluent in Spanish, though neither Luis nor his parents knew it. We all sat down to eat, and as usual, his parents spoke in Spanish, their conversation flowing effortlessly.
Patricia’s expression shifted from polite interest to confusion, then to something much worse—horror.
Halfway through dessert, her fork clattered against her plate. Under the table, she gripped my arm, her fingers ice-cold.
“You need to talk to your husband,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Right now.”
My stomach twisted. “Why?” I frowned, trying to keep my voice steady.
Patricia hesitated, her eyes darting toward Luis’s parents.
“Because his parents just asked when he’s finally going to tell you about his real wife.”
I stared at her. “What?”
“His real wife,” Patricia repeated. “In Spain.”
The world around me slowed. That didn’t make sense. I was his wife.
I forced a laugh. “You must have misunderstood.”
Patricia didn’t blink. “I didn’t.”
I turned to Luis, who had gone rigid. He must’ve overheard because his face drained of color, his jaw clenching. His hands trembled as he set down his fork.
“What is she talking about?” I asked, my voice sharp as glass.
Silence fell over the table. His mother clutched her rosary, whispering a quiet prayer. His father sighed, shaking his head.
Luis’s mother finally met my gaze. “Hija,” she said softly, the Spanish word for daughter feeling like a knife between my ribs. “I am sorry. We never wanted to be the ones to tell you, but you deserve to know.”
She took a deep breath and said the words that shattered my world.
“Luis married another woman in Spain years ago. Her name is Sofia. They have two children together.”
I blinked, trying to process the words. A wife AND children?
Luis wouldn’t meet my eyes. His silence was confirmation enough.
“Children?” I choked out.
His mother nodded. “Sí. Two little ones. He told Sofia he was traveling for work. She thought he was on business trips… but he was here, with you.”
Every “I love you,” every promise, every tear I had shed over not being able to conceive—it had all been a lie.
“How could you?” I whispered, pushing back from the table.
Luis reached for my hand. “Mi amor, listen to me—”
“How long?” I cut him off.
His father muttered, “Ocho años.”
Eight years. We had been married for three. He had been married to Sofia when we met.
“I can explain—”
“No,” I snapped. “You can pack your things.”
Luis followed me as I stormed away. “Emma, please, just give me five minutes—”
I whirled around. “To explain what? That you’ve been married to two women? That you have children you never told me about? That you let me cry every month over a baby we could never have when you already had two?”
“It’s complicated—”
“No,” I said, my voice deadly calm. “It’s simple. You’re a liar. A cheat. And as of right now, you’re homeless.”
But I wasn’t done.
Luis had put my name on everything—our joint bank accounts, our lease, even his car. Two days later, he came back to find everything gone. Bank accounts? Empty. His car? Repossessed. His clothes? Donated.
He stood in the middle of our empty apartment, stunned. “You can’t do this.”
“I just did,” I said. “And that’s just the beginning.”
With Patricia’s help, I tracked down Sofia. She was just as blindsided. Rather than turn against each other, we decided to make Luis pay. We both filed lawsuits against him for bigamy and fraud. His visa was investigated, and his company found out about his deception.
Luis lost his job, his reputation, and both of his homes. Sofia left him, taking full custody of their children. His name was dragged through two countries’ legal systems.
In the end, he had nowhere to go except back to his parents’ house in Spain, disgraced and penniless.
Months later, Patricia and I sat at the same café where I had met Luis. She raised her glass of sangria. “To new beginnings.”
I smirked. “To karma.”
She clinked her glass against mine. “And to revenge, best served cold.”
Luis had taken years of my life. But he wouldn’t take my future. That belonged to me again.
