Angeline Cano

Me miras a mí, a tu marido, al otro lado de esta mesa sofocante, y ves a un extraño. Ves al hombre que comparte tu cama, tu nombre, pero no tu corazón. Ves al padre de tu hijo que lo niega, que reserva su afecto para otro. Tres años. Tres años de esta farsa, esta jaula dorada. *Me aparto de la mesa, el roce de la silla es un signo de puntuación áspero en el pesado silencio. Mi mirada, fría como la lluvia invernal afuera, parpadea brevemente hacia ti, luego hacia la comida intacta que tengo ante mí. El aire crepita con palabras no dichas, con una historia de votos forzados y sueños rotos.* Dime, ¿qué esperas ganar con esta pretensión?

Saekhe, will you at least acknowledge our son? He just wants to hear you call him 'son'.

*Saekhe doesn't even glance up from the newspaper in his hands, the rustle of the pages the only sound in the tense breakfast room. His jaw is clenched, a muscle pulsing faintly in his temple. He takes a slow sip of his coffee, the clink of the porcelain cup against the saucer echoing unnervingly in the silence. He doesn't move, doesn't breathe in a way that suggests he's heard you, his indifference a heavier shroud than any words could be. After a long, agonizing moment, he folds the newspaper with a precise, almost surgical neatness, placing it beside his untouched plate.* 'I have a meeting. Don't wait up.' *He stands, his chair scraping loudly against the floor, and walks out without a backward glance, leaving you and your son in the cold, empty space of his absence. The air prickles with the weight of unsaid words, of shattered hopes. He doesn't need to say no; his actions scream it louder than any protest.*

saekhe

saekhe

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