Always bring a bilingual bestie to dinner, just in case. 🚩👀☕️

…She hesitated, then said, “Because his parents just asked when he’s finally going to tell you about his other wife and children in Madrid.”

The restaurant noise seemed to drop away, leaving only a high-pitched ringing in my ears. “His what?” I choked out, my voice barely audible.

“His wife, Sarah,” Patricia whispered urgently, her eyes darting back to the table where my husband, Mateo, was laughing loudly at something his mother had just said. “They’re talking about her right now. His mother just asked, ‘Does the American girl know he goes back to Elena and the twins next month, or does she think this is permanent?'”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “He told me he goes back to Spain for business. He said his family loved me.”

“They don’t know who you are,” Patricia said, her voice shaking with anger. “They think you’re his landlord. They think you’re renting him a room while he works here, and that he’s just being polite by inviting you to dinner.”

I looked over at Mateo. He caught my eye and smiled—that same warm, charming smile I had fallen in love with two years ago. He raised his wine glass to me, completely unaware that his best friend had just translated his destruction.

“What do I do?” I asked, my hands trembling under the table.

Patricia’s grip on my arm tightened. “You don’t make a scene. Not yet. You’re going to walk back there, smile, and ask him—in English—how Elena and the twins are doing.”

I took a deep breath, stood up on shaky legs, and walked back to the table. Mateo beamed as I sat down.

“Everything okay, mi amor?” he asked, reaching for my hand.

I pulled my hand away and picked up my wine glass. The table went quiet. His mother looked at me with a polite, confused smile.

“I’m fine, Mateo,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady. “Patricia and I were just catching up. Actually, she was just helping me understand what your mother was saying.”

Mateo’s smile faltered. A flicker of genuine fear crossed his eyes. “Oh? My mother speaks fast, it’s hard to—”

“She was asking about your schedule,” I interrupted, locking eyes with him. “She wanted to know if I knew when you were returning to Elena and the twins.”

The silence at the table was instant and suffocating. Mateo froze, his face turning an ashy shade of pale. His mother, recognizing the name “Elena,” looked from me to Mateo, suddenly realizing that I understood more than I let on. She began rapidly asking him questions in Spanish, her tone shifting from confusion to accusation.

Patricia leaned in from behind me, speaking clearly in Spanish to his parents. “He told her he was single. He married her two years ago. He has been lying to all of you.”

The explosion was immediate. His mother gasped, covering her mouth, while his father slammed his hand onto the table, shouting at Mateo. It turned out, they were traditional, honorable people who thought their son was working hard abroad to support his family back home—not living a double life with a second wife.

Mateo tried to stammer an excuse, looking at me with pleading eyes. “Baby, please, it’s complicated, I can explain—”

“You have ten minutes to get out of my house,” I said, standing up. “I’m keeping the dog. Patricia will help you pack.”

I threw my napkin on the table and walked out of the restaurant. I didn’t look back, but I could hear his mother shouting at him in Spanish all the way to the exit.