Five years after losing my wife, I attended my best friend’s wedding with my daughter. But my world shattered when he lifted the bride’s veil.
As my daughter whispered, “Daddy, why are you crying?” the bride locked eyes with meand in that instant, everything collapsed.
I never planned to go. My colleague Marcos dragged me there, swearing it would “snap me out of this slump.”
Id been pulling double shifts at the construction site for weeks, my body heavy as cement.
“Just an hour,” Marcos insisted, practically shoving me out of my Madrid apartment. “Then crawl back into your hermit hole.”
Funny how lifes biggest moments ambush you.
The party brimmed with people who’d never lifted anything heavier than wine glasses. In my worn jeans and old T-shirt, I stood out.
Then I saw her. Lucía.
She shouldnt have been there eithershed only come to drop something off for a friend, I later learned.
Our gazes met across the room. Spark, connection, call it what you want. I knew instantly I wanted her in my life.
“Whos that?” I asked Marcos, nodding toward her.
He followed my stare and whistled low. “Lucía. Dont even try, brother. Her family owns half of Madrid.”
But I was already walking to her.
When she noticed me approaching, she smiledand that smile hit me like a hammer.
“Javier,” I said, offering my hand.
“Lucía,” she replied, voice soft but steady. Her hand was small in mine, but her grip firm. “You look as out of place here as I do.”
We talked for hours. No spoiled rich girljust warmth and genuine curiosity. When I walked her to her car, I was done for.
“My parents will hate you,” she said, moonlight catching her dark hair.
“Is that a problem?”
Her eyes drilled into me. “Probably. But I dont think I care.”
Six months later, we married. Her parents skipped the wedding. They disinherited her completelyno money, no contact.
Lucía just squeezed my hand and said, “I dont need their money. I just need you.”
For a while, that was enough.
We moved into a tiny two-bedroom flat. By day I worked construction; by night, I studied architectural design. Lucía got a job at a gallery. We were happyor so I thought.
Then Alma was born. Something shifted. The light in Lucías eyes dimmed. She began comparing our life to the one shed left behind.
“My college roommate just bought a beach house,” she said one night over macaroni in our cramped kitchen. Alma slept in her crib nearby.
“Good for her,” I muttered, eyes glued to 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 turned sharp as glass. “When Alma starts college? When we retire? Im tired of waiting for this better that never comes.”
Fights became routine. She resented budgets, despised our modest life.
“This isnt what I wanted,” she snapped.
As if Id tricked her. As if love paid the bills.
“You knew exactly who I was when you married me,” I reminded her during one bitter argument.
“Maybe that was the mistake,” she hissed. “I thought youd be more by now.”
The next day, I came home early with flowers. The apartment was silent.
Her suitcaseand all her thingswere gone.
In Almas crib, a note:
“I want a divorce. Our marriage was a mistake. I left Alma with Mrs. Martinez on the fifth floor. Keep her.”
I called her phone a hundred times. No answer. Desperate, I went to her parents mansion, wild-eyed.
The security guard blocked me.
“Youre not welcome here, sir,” he said, almost pitying.
“Please, I just need to talk to Lucía.”
“Sir, you need to leave.”
Two days later, divorce papers arrived. Lucía had waived custody. Her fathers lawyers handled everything with cold efficiency.
Then came the final blow.
Six months after she left, I called her parents house one last time.
“Shes dead,” her mother said flatly. “Car accident. Dont call again. You meant nothing to her.”
Click.
I collapsed in the kitchen, sobbing until Alma woke and cried too.
They wouldnt even let me visit her grave. Wiped her from my life like shed never existed.
I threw myself into work and raising Alma. Finished my degree, 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 became a distant echo.
Then the invitation came.
Esteban, my oldest friend, was getting married. Wed lost touch after he joined the military, but now he wanted me there.
“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. “Big, fancy cake.”
“Then were going,” she declared, returning to her artwork.
The wedding was at a coastal resort, white flowers everywhere, sea breeze drifting through. Esteban hugged me tight when we arrived.
“Look at you! Hotshot architect now,” he grinned, clapping my shoulder. “And this beauty must be Alma.”
Alma gave a shy smile.
The ceremony was beautiful. Guests filled white chairs on the beach. Alma swung her legs, fiddling with the flower in her hair.
Music swelled. Everyone stood.
The bride walked down the aisle, her face veiled.
Then the moment came.
Esteban beamed as she reached him. Tenderly, he lifted her veil.
My breath died. Tears spilled before I realized I was crying.
Alma frowned up at me. “Daddy, why are you crying?”
I froze, staring at the ghost of my dead wife in a wedding dress.
Lucía smiled at the crowduntil she saw me with our daughter. Her eyes flew wide.
Then she ran.
Esteban called after her, confused, but she was already gone. I stood on shaky legs.
“Stay with her.”
In the end, I understood: the best revenge was building a happy life without her.
