“My husband told me I’d have no roof without him. Today, I rent him the house where he lives with his new wife.”

I remember the day Rodrigo said it perfectly. We were in the kitchen—his kitchen, according to him—and I had casually mentioned painting the living room a different color.

“Painting?” he laughed, that laugh that had started to sound more like a bark. “Sweetheart, do you forget this is my house? Without me, you wouldn’t even have a roof over your head.”

I froze mid-sip, the coffee halfway to my lips.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, adjusting his belt with that gesture he made when he wanted to look important. “I pay the mortgage. I bought this house. If you leave tomorrow, where will you live? With your mom?”

Something inside me broke that day. Not dramatically, no shouting. More like a plate falling to the floor, shattering so completely that it’s not worth even trying to pick up.

“You’re right,” I said calmly, watching his surprise at my lack of argument. “Without you, I wouldn’t have this roof.”

What Rodrigo didn’t know was that I had been quietly working all these years. While he flaunted being the provider, I had saved every peso I earned from freelance translations. Every. Single. Peso.

Six months later, when he left me for Vanessa—his “true love,” a 26-year-old influencer with more filters than personality—Rodrigo was convinced he’d left me destitute.

“I hope you find somewhere to stay,” he said as he packed his things, smiling in a way meant to be compassionate but only came off cruel. “I know this is hard for you.”

“I’ll be fine,” I said.

And I was.

With my savings and a loan my brother helped me secure, I bought a duplex in a neighborhood just starting to become trendy. Not huge, but mine. All in my name.

I divided it into two apartments and put one up for rent.

The first prospective tenants? A young couple. He was tall, trying to look like a leading man past his prime. She was an Instagram blonde, nails perfectly fake, constantly checking herself in the windows.

“Rodrigo?” I said, feigning surprise as I opened the door.

He went pale.

“Ma… Mariana? What are you doing here?”

“I live upstairs. This is my property,” I smiled. “Are you here to see the apartment for rent?”

Vanessa looked me up and down with disdain.

“Your property? Rodri, didn’t you say she had nothing?”

“I… well…” Rodrigo stammered like a nervous teenager.

“Things change,” I said, shrugging. “Want to see the kitchen? It’s bigger than the one in the house we lived in, Rodri. And the bathroom has an amazing jacuzzi.”

Through the whole tour, Rodrigo couldn’t meet my eyes. Vanessa, on the other hand, kept asking about closets and whether she could paint the walls millennial pink.

At the end, we sat in the small living room.

“It’s perfect,” Vanessa said, holding Rodrigo’s hand. “Honey, we should take it. Close to your work, and the price is reasonable.”

Rodrigo looked at me with a mix of humiliation and pleading.

“Are… there other interested parties?”

“A couple,” I lied. “But you’re the first to see it. I can give you until tomorrow to decide.”

That night, Rodrigo texted me: “Please, don’t do this.”

I replied: “Do what? Rent you an apartment? It’s just business, Rodri. Nothing personal.”

They signed the lease two days later.

Now, every time I walk upstairs to my apartment, I hear life unfolding below: Vanessa complaining about her Instagram likes, Rodrigo whining about work, the cheap furniture creaking under their weight.

And every first of the month, when Rodrigo deposits the rent into my account, I pour myself a glass of wine and toast alone in my kitchen.

“To roofs,” I whisper, smiling.

Because it turns out that without him, I don’t just have a roof. I have two. And I rent one to him.

Life has exquisite humor.