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 collapsed.
I never intended to go to that party. It was my coworker Marcos who dragged me, swearing 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 insisted, practically shoving me out of my apartment in central Madrid. Then you can go back to being a hermit.
Funny how lifes biggest moments come when least expected.
The party was packed with people whod never lifted anything heavier than a wine glass. In my worn jeans and old T-shirt, I stood out.
Then I saw her. Lucía.
She shouldnt have been there either. Later, I learned shed only come to drop something off for a friend.
Our eyes met across the room, and something sparkedcall it connection, fate, whatever. 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 approaching, she smileda smile that 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 do.
We talked for hours that night. She wasnt what I expectedno spoiled rich girl, just warmth and real interest. When I walked her to her car, I was already gone.
My parents would hate you, she said, moonlight shimmering in her dark hair.
Is that a problem? I asked.
Her gaze pierced through me. 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 gatherings, nothing.
But Lucía just squeezed my hand and said, I dont care about money. I only want you.
For a while, that was enough.
We moved into a small two-bedroom apartment. 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. And something shifted. The light in Lucías eyes began to dim. She started comparing our life to the one shed left behind.
My college roommate just bought a house by the coast, she said one night over mac and cheese in our tiny kitchen while Alma slept in her crib nearby.
Good for her, I muttered, eyes fixed on 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? she snapped, her voice sharp as a blade. When Almas in college? When were retired? Im tired of waiting for this so-called better.
Fights became routine. She hated budgeting, despised our modest life.
This isnt what I wanted, she said.
As if Id tricked her. As if love paid the bills.
You knew who I was when you married me, I reminded her during a bitter argument.
Maybe that was the mistake, she replied icily. I thought youd be more by now.
The next day, I came home early with flowers to surprise her. The house was silent.
Her suitcase and all her things were gone.
In Almas crib, I found a note:
I want a divorce. Sorry, but our marriage was a mistake. Ive left Alma with Mrs. Martínez 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 barred my way.
Youre not welcome here, sir, he said, almost pitying.
Please, I just need to talk to Lucía, I begged.
Sir, you need to leave.
Two days later, divorce papers arrived. Lucía had signed away custody of Alma. Her fathers lawyers handled everything with brutal 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.
She hung up.
I collapsed in the kitchen, sobbing until Alma woke and cried with me.
They didnt even let me see her grave. She was erased from my life as if shed never existed.
I threw myself into work and raising Alma. I finished my studies and 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.
Until the invitation arrived.
Esteban, my childhood best friend, was getting married. Wed lost touch after he joined the military, but now he wanted me there.
What do you think, Almita? Want to see Uncle Esteban get married? I asked while we painted together.
Will there be 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 youa real success, he said, clapping my shoulder. And this beauty must be Alma.
Alma smiled shyly.
The ceremony was beautiful. Guests filled the white chairs on the beach while Alma swung her legs, playing with the flower in her hair.
Music swelled, and everyone stood.
The bride walked down the aisle, her face hidden beneath a veil.
Then came the moment.
Esteban beamed as she reached him, tenderly lifting her veil.
My breath stopped. Tears streamed down my face before I even realized I was crying.
Alma looked up, confused. Daddy, why are you crying?
I stood frozen, staring at the ghost of my dead ex-wife in a wedding dress.
Lucía smiled at the guestsuntil her eyes widened at the sight of me with our daughter.
Then she ran.
Esteban called after her, baffled, but she was already gone. I stood on shaky legs.
Stay with her, I whispered, finally understanding the best revenge had been building a happy life without her.
