Alberto laughed coldly:

“Promises to the d:ead don’t help me pay bills. I promised myself I’d be successful. And that means breaking free from this cage that smells of mothballs and the past.”

His gaze crushed me against the chair like an iron weight.

“Understand, Clara?, it’s the only right decision for our family.”

“Our family.” He always used that phrase when he wanted something: when he needed a loan for his car, when he made me give up a trip with my friends.

“I can’t, Alberto,” I said quietly, but he heard it.

“Can’t you? Don’t you understand that without me you’re a zero?”

Nobody! Who would want you with your absurd principles and your promises to phantoms?”

He didn’t shout. He said it calmly, as if passing judgment. And that made it even more terrifying.

In the following days, he played the role of the perfect husband. He brought me fresh juices, sent me tender messages. But I knew: it was his old tactic. First, hit. Then, lull me to sleep with false displays of affection.