When my Spanish husband spoke to his parents, I never questioned the language barrier — until my friend, fluent in Spanish, joined us for dinner.
Halfway through the meal, she grabbed my arm, eyes wide with horror. “You need to talk to your husband.
Right now.”
The scent of freshly brewed espresso and warm churros filled the air as I sat in a quaint café, journaling my thoughts about Barcelona.
A deep, velvety voice interrupted my scribbling. “Excuse me, but you look like someone who enjoys good conversation.”
I looked up to find a man with dark, expressive eyes and an easy smile standing beside my table.
His Spanish accent made every word sound like poetry.
I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, unable to keep from smiling back.
“And what does someone who enjoys good conversation look like?”
He gestured to my journal. “They write when everyone else is taking pictures. They sit alone but look comfortable doing it.
They notice things.” He extended his hand. “I’m Luis.”
“Emma,” I replied, shaking his hand.
What started as a casual conversation turned into a whirlwind romance. By the end of my trip, I felt something undeniable between us.
Something I hadn’t expected to find.
Luis and I kept in touch after I returned to the States. Weekly calls turned into daily ones. Calls turned into visits.
He flew to see me during Thanksgiving. I spent Christmas in Barcelona.
By Valentine’s Day, we were making plans that terrified and thrilled me in equal measure.
“I can’t keep saying goodbye to you at airports,” he whispered one night over video chat. “I just want to be where you are.”
Love across continents wasn’t easy, but within a year, we made a decision.
Luis moved to the U.S., and we got married in a small ceremony.
From the moment we said “I do,” we dreamed of having children.
We tried for years without success. The doctors couldn’t find anything wrong, but every pregnancy test still turned up negative.
“Maybe it’s not meant to be,” I whispered one night.
Luis pulled me into his arms. “It’ll happen when it’s meant to, mi corazón.”
Luis was my rock, but his parents… well, I was never really sure where I stood with them.
They only spoke Spanish when they visited, rapid and fluid, excluding me from conversations happening in my own home.
His mother barely made eye contact, and her tight smiles never reached her eyes.
His father’s interactions with me were minimal and formal.
“Your parents don’t like me much, do they?” I asked Luis during one of their visits.
“No, no,” he assured me.
“They’re just old-fashioned. Don’t worry about it.”
I told myself it was just cultural differences — maybe they were shy, maybe I should have worked harder to learn Spanish.
I brushed off the unease, never suspecting there was something deeper beneath their distance.
The tension reached its peak when my old college roommate, Patricia, joined us for dinner one evening.
Neither Luis nor his parents knew Patricia was fluent in Spanish when we all sat down to eat together.
They carried out their usual animated conversation and I watched Patricia’s expression from polite interest to confusion to something that looked alarmingly like horror.
Halfway through dessert, Patricia froze, her fork clattering against her plate.
Under the table, she gripped my arm, her fingers ice-cold.
“You need to talk to your husband,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Right now.”
My stomach twisted.
Something was terribly wrong.
“Why?” I frowned, trying to maintain my smile for our other guests.
Patricia hesitated, her eyes darting toward Luis’s parents.
“Because his parents just asked when he’s finally going to tell you about his real wife.”
I stared at her, uncomprehending. “What?”
“His real wife,” Patricia repeated. “In Spain.”
That didn’t make sense.
I was his wife!
The room seemed to tilt, my heartbeat roaring in my ears.
“Real wife?” I forced a laugh. “You must have misunderstood.”
Patricia didn’t blink. “I didn’t.”
I looked up to find Luis watching us, his expression frozen.
He must’ve overheard us because his face drained of color and his jaw clenched.
His hands trembled as he put down his fork.
“What is she talking about?” I asked, my voice sharp as glass.
Luis’s parents stopped talking. The silence that fell over the table was deafening.
His mother clutched her rosary, whispering a quiet prayer.
His father sighed, shaking his head.
“Luis?” My voice cracked on his name. “Why are you discussing a wife in Spain?”
“Emma, please,” Luis started, reaching for my hand across the table.
“Let me explain—”
His mother cut him off with a torrent of Spanish. Then she turned to me, her eyes finally meeting mine.
“Hija,” she said, the Spanish word for daughter feeling like a knife between my ribs. “I am sorry.
We never wanted to be the ones to tell you, but you deserve to know.”
My breath caught as she uttered the words that shattered my world.
“Luis married another woman in Spain years ago. Her name is Sofia. They have two children together.”
I blinked, trying to process her words.
A wife AND children?
The words bounced around my skull, refusing to settle into anything that made sense.
Luis wouldn’t meet my eyes. His silence was confirmation enough.
The worst part wasn’t just that he was married. It was the way they said it, like I had been the intruder all along.
And I guess I was; I just hadn’t realized it.
“Children?” My voice cracked.
Luis’s mother nodded. “Sí. Two little ones.
He told Sofia he was traveling for work all these years. She thought he was on business trips… but he was here, with you.”
My entire marriage was a lie. Every “I love you,” every promise, every night spent crying over our struggles to conceive… Fury rose in my throat, burning hotter than the betrayal.
“How could you?” I whispered, pushing back from the table.
Luis grabbed my hand.
“Mi amor, listen to me—”
“How long?” I cut him off.
His father muttered, “Ocho años.”
Eight years. The truth landed like a final blow: We had been married for three years. He had been married to Sofia when we met.
“I can explain—” Luis started.
“No,” I snapped, yanking my hand away.
“You can pack your things.”
Luis followed me as I left the dining room. “Emma, please, just give me five minutes—”
I whirled around.
“To explain what, exactly? How you’ve been married to two women?
How you have children you never told me about? How you let me cry month after month because we couldn’t have a baby when you already had two?”
“It’s complicated—”
“No,” I cut him off again. “It’s simple.
You’re a liar. You’re a cheat. And as of right now, you’re homeless.”
But I wasn’t done.
Luis had put my name on everything: our joint bank accounts, our lease, even his car.
He’d insisted on it, claiming it was easier with his immigration status.
I realized I had the power to take back something from this nightmare.
Two days later, Luis came to the apartment to fetch his things but found nothing. Our joint bank accounts? Empty.
I’d transferred everything to a new account in my name only. His car? Repossessed.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page. Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
