Every time my brother-in-law drove me home, I would black out and wake up sore. My husband just laughed and said I was out of shape. After the fourth trip, I hid a voice recorder in my purse — and that night I heard a phone call that made me realize the blackouts had never been accidents.

Four people have tried. Not one of their answers is the right one. I have the right one, and it is worse.

Here is how it is actually done.

The first one I signed awake.

The eleventh of March last year. In our own kitchen, at about eight in the evening, with the television on in the next room.

Esteban put four pages in front of me and a pen on top of them.

He said it was the restructure thing. For the tax position. He said Birgit’s office had drawn it, which was a lie, and which I could have checked in about ninety seconds with a telephone I was holding.

And I signed it.

In about four seconds. Without reading one line of it. Without turning to the second page.

Not because I am stupid.

Because I have signed about four hundred things for that man in eleven years. Mortgage papers. The lease on the flat. The car. A thing for his mother in 2018 that I also did not read.