Five years after losing my wife, I attended my best friends wedding with my daughter. But my world shattered when he lifted the brides veil.
As my daughter whispered, “Daddy, why are you crying?” the bride locked eyes with me and in that instant, everything fell apart.
I never intended to go to that party. My colleague Marcos dragged me there, insisting it would help me “snap out of this slump.”
Id been working double shifts at the construction site for weeks, my body heavy as cement.
“Just one hour,” Marcos pleaded, practically pushing me out of my Madrid apartment. “Then you can go back to being a hermit.”
Funny how the most pivotal moments sneak up when least expected.
The party was full of people whod likely never lifted anything heavier than a wine glass. In my worn jeans and old t-shirt, I felt out of place.
Then I saw her. Lucía.
She shouldnt have been there either. I later learned shed only come to drop something off for a friend.
Our eyes met across the roomspark, connection, call it what you will. I knew instantly I wanted her in my life.
“Whos that?” I asked Marcos, nodding in her direction.
He followed my gaze and whistled softly. “Lucía. Dont even try, man. Her family owns half of Madrid.”
But I was already walking toward her.
When she saw me approach, she smiledthat smile hit me like a sledgehammer.
“Im Javier,” I said, offering my hand.
“Lucía,” she replied, her voice soft but steady. Her hand was small in mine, but her grip firm. “You look as out of place here as I feel.”
We talked for hours that night. No spoiled rich girljust warmth and genuine curiosity. When I walked her to her car, I was a goner.
“My parents will hate you,” she said, moonlight glinting in her dark hair.
“Is that a problem?” I asked.
She studied me with piercing eyes. “Probably. But I think I dont care.”
Six months later, we were married. Her parents skipped the wedding. They disowned her completelyno inheritance, no family ties, nothing.
But Lucía just squeezed my hand and said, “I dont care about money. I just want you.”
For a while, that was enough.
We moved into a small two-bedroom flat. By day, I worked construction; by night, I studied architectural design. Lucía got a job at a gallery. We were happy or so I thought.
Then Alma was born. Something shifted. The light in Lucías eyes dimmed. She started comparing our life to the one shed left behind.
“My university friend just bought a house on the coast,” she said one night as we ate macaroni in our tiny kitchen. Alma slept in her crib beside us.
“Good for her,” I muttered, eyes glued to my blueprints.
“She invited us to visit. I had to say we couldnt afford it.”
Her words stung. “Were fine, Lucía. Things will get better.”
“When?” Her voice was sharp as a blade. “When Alma goes to college? When we retire? Im tired of waiting for this so-called better.”
Fights became routine. She hated budgeting, resented our modest life.
“This isnt what I wanted,” she told me.
As if Id tricked her. As if love paid the bills.
“You knew who I was when you married me,” I snapped during one bitter argument.
“Maybe that was the mistake,” she said coldly. “I thought youd be more by now.”
The next day, I came home early with flowers to surprise her. The apartment was silent.
Her suitcase and all her things were gone.
In Almas crib, I found a note:
“I want a divorce. Our marriage was a mistake. I left Alma with Mrs. Martínez on the fifth floor. Keep her.”
I called her phone a hundred times. No answer. Frantic, I went to her parents mansion, wild-eyed.
The security guard blocked me. “Youre not welcome here, sir,” he said, almost pityingly.
“Please, I just need to talk to Lucía,” I begged.
“Sir, you need to leave.”
Two days later, divorce papers arrived. Lucía had waived custody of Alma. Her fathers lawyers handled everything with ruthless efficiency.
Then came the final blow.
Six months after she left, I called her parents house one last time.
“Shes dead,” her mother said tonelessly. “Lucía was in a car accident. Dont call again. You meant nothing to her.”
The line went dead.
I collapsed on the kitchen floor, sobbing until Alma woke and cried too.
They wouldnt even let me visit her grave. She was erased from my life as if shed never existed.
I threw myself into work and raising Alma. Finished my studies, started designing houses instead of just building them. People noticed my talent.
Within three years, I had my own firm. Alma grew into a bright, joyful girljust like her mother.
Five years passed. Life moved on, the pain fading to a distant echo.
Then the invitation came.
Esteban, my oldest friend, was getting married. Wed lost touch when he enlisted, but now he wanted me at his wedding.
“What do you say, Almita? Should we watch Uncle Esteban get married?” I asked as we painted together.
“Is there cake?” she asked seriously.
I laughed. “Yes, a big fancy one.”
“Then were going,” she declared, returning to her drawing.
The wedding was at a seaside resort, surrounded by white flowers and ocean breeze. Esteban hugged me tightly when we arrived.
“Look at you! A total success story,” he said, clapping my shoulder. “And this beauty must be Alma.”
Alma smiled shyly.
The ceremony was beautiful. Guests filled white chairs along the beach. Alma swung her legs, playing with the flower in her hair.
Music swelled, and everyone stood.
The bride walked down the aisle, her face veiled.
Then came the moment.
Esteban beamed as she approached. Gently, he lifted her veil.
My breath stopped. Tears streamed down my face before I realized I was crying.
Alma looked up, confused. “Daddy, why are you crying?”
I froze, staring at the ghost of my dead ex-wife in a wedding gown.
Lucía smiled at the gueststhen her eyes widened when she saw me with our daughter.
And then she ran.
Esteban called after her, bewildered, but she was already gone. I stood on shaky legs.
“Stay with her.” And at last, I understoodthe best revenge had been building a happy life without her.
