“The day we signed the divorce papers, he smiled and told me I should be grateful he was leaving quietly. I didn’t keep the house, the car, or even my son. Six months later, a single phone call from me made one million pesos land in my account—every cent accounted for.”
My name is Ana. I’m 32 years old, and I used to be an accountant at a small private company in Naucalpan (State of Mexico). I met Ricardo when I was 27. At the time, he managed a chain of cellphone accessory stores in Mexico City and Toluca. Back then, I thought I was lucky: I believed I had found a talented, mature man. Ricardo was five years older than me, spoke with confidence, and knew exactly how to charm women. Once, he told me:
“Marry me and you’ll be happy. Women who think too much about money can never keep a man.”
Naively, I believed I would be the exception.
Three years into our marriage, I quit my job to stay home and raise our son. All expenses depended on Ricardo. The apartment in Polanco wasn’t in my name, nor were his savings accounts. The car had been purchased before we married. All the property, “by coincidence,” fell into a legal gray area that the law couldn’t touch.
One day, I discovered Ricardo was having an affair. Not with just one woman, but with several—from a secretary in Santa Fe to a newly graduated intern on Reforma Avenue. I caused a huge scene. His response was cold:
“You want a divorce? Fine, sign the papers. The house is mine, the car is mine. You can’t raise the child—I’ll keep him.”
I was so shocked I couldn’t speak. I had spent my youth believing in love and sacrifice. But just as he had predicted, the judge ruled: the apartment was separate property, the car had been bought before the marriage, and custody of the child went to whoever had greater financial resources. I left with some clothes, a little savings, and a shattered heart.
I moved for a while to Guadalajara, to my parents’ house. I cried every night. Then one day, my mother looked me straight in the eyes and said:
“Instead of crying, why don’t you get up? You were the best student in school. Are you really going to let that man laugh at you?”
Her words hit me like a slap.
I went back to studying. I enrolled in an online digital marketing course, then started applying for freelance work. At first, I wrote content on commission; later, I managed Facebook and Instagram campaigns for a clothing store in Mexico City. The money wasn’t much, but I felt I was moving forward.
Three months later, I ran into Patricia, a college friend who now worked in the tech industry in Monterrey. She was shocked to learn I was divorced. She introduced me to a small group of women who, like me, were trying to rebuild their lives. I learned a great deal—especially about digitizing personal data, tracking transactions, and digital forensics.
One day, while accidentally checking my old cellphone, I found messages and photos Ricardo had sent to one of his lovers. What I saw froze my blood.
They were extremely sensitive fragments: mentions of VAT evasion, fake invoices, and off-the-books records within his store system.
My heart raced. My accountant’s instincts kicked in. I realized that when we first got married, I had handled the basic bookkeeping. I still had some Excel files, bank statements, and even VAT invoices that had never been reported.
That’s when I understood: even if I had walked away from the divorce with nothing, if I had proof of his illegal business practices, I could force him to his knees.
I began compiling documents—every WhatsApp chat (with timestamps), exported emails, and compared them with the tax reports filed with the SAT. Everything pointed to the same conclusion: Ricardo had evaded millions in taxes, paid employees under the table, and hidden income.
I showed the documents to Patricia. She was stunned.
“This can be reported not only to the SAT and the Financial Intelligence Unit, but also to the Financial Crimes Prosecutor’s Office,” she said.
I didn’t want to see him in prison. I wasn’t looking for that much. I just wanted justice—to make him understand what it felt like to lose everything.
I called him without any explanation. When he heard my voice, he laughed.
“Did you dial the wrong number?”
I sent him a PDF file. It was a summary of all the evidence: photos of fake invoices, transfer histories between shell companies, and message excerpts with his lovers. I wrote only one sentence:
“You have 24 hours to transfer one million pesos, or I will send this file to the SAT, the Financial Intelligence Unit, and the Financial Crimes Prosecutor’s Office of Mexico City.”
Ten minutes later, he called me back. His voice was shaking.
“What do you want? Is this blackmail?”
I smiled.
“No. Just reminding you of something: there’s always a price to pay. In money… or in freedom.”
Twenty-four hours later, my account showed $1,000,000 MXN, transferred from a shell company under his cousin’s name in Querétaro. There was no message, no apology. Just money—the price of the life he had destroyed.
I didn’t spend any of it on myself. Part of it went to my parents in Guadalajara. Another part I donated to a fund Patricia had created to support divorced women looking to start their own businesses. The rest I kept in the bank—not to spend, but to remind myself: I fell, but I didn’t break.
I never thought about revenge. But sometimes in life, a counterattack is necessary—so people remember their limits. Ricardo didn’t go to prison, but I know he will never humiliate another woman again—least of all the ex-wife he once believed had nothing left in her hands.