Not because money was short. Of course, it was short and of course it was a problem, but in the shortage, we were, happy? Not because any of the filth, clutter, sweat stains, and all that mess mattered at all; not because of my iron will to change him that failed over and over, or because the waiting became a sick lump in my stomach; not because of the way I locked myself up to cry feeling miserable and like that misery redeemed me of everything so that I wasn’t just a martyr, I was also the only woman with the ability to put up with all his bullshit: that I rejoiced in all of it, found in it my reason for being, the little triumph of my victimhood. Not because we had broken every promise and every agreement and by doing so had felt like wrung-out rags, our bodies wrinkled on the floor; not because we’d hit each other, we’d drawn blood a few times, we’d thrown things at each other, I’d gotten on my knees saying never again, he’d groveled saying never again. Not because we’d lost everything, including children, animals, books, suitcases, and passports; not because we’d gotten bored of the sex, the sex bored us, but the desire always permutated and returned, we’d find perverse ways for it to return. No, it wasn’t because of any of that. The marriage had crumbled because I sensed that I had the strength to survive the natural disintegration or because of the naive idea of a better life or because I ignored the fatal pain of that loss. There was nothing to do about it: that which was the bond and the sum of everything enumerated, accumulated, lost, disappeared (it became a tuft of grass growing from the crack). We stopped sleeping together, we stopped living together, and one fine day I got a message that said I just stopped by the little square where we met twelve years ago. I have a flower in my hand and a pack of a hundred thousand dogs licking me while they rip me open. I knew then that it had ended, but that there was so much to do before it would really end. He’d have to get his things and meet another woman. Or have a child. Or we’d both have to have a child. There’d be a few more years, or four, which is how many are needed, experts say, for nothing to be left, not even the maddening nostalgia that in those days made me go from love to hatred with a cursed speed. But what I just said isn’t so simple because memory is impregnated with images that at the slightest touch appear with the devastating reality of the absence, what will always be missing. That nostalgia assaults you the rest of your life and the tuft of grass is a footprint the forest hides beneath your feet. There’s no peace that can be enough; the element that activates the memory can be anything, the slightest trace.