Two days later, the divorce papers arrived. Her family’s lawyers had arranged everything. Lucía had renounced all parental rights.
And then, six months later, came the final blow.
When I called her parents one last time, her mother’s cold voice told me: “Lucía is dead. A car accident. Don’t call again. You meant nothing to her.”
She hung up.
I collapsed on the kitchen floor, Alma’s cries echoing through the silence.
They refused to let me see her grave. To them, I was nobody. They erased her from my life, as though she had never existed.
Building a New Life
The grief nearly consumed me. But I had Alma, and she needed me. So I buried myself in work and studies. Slowly, brick by brick, I rebuilt my life.
I graduated, started designing homes instead of just building them, and eventually founded my own company. Success came, but more importantly, Alma grew into a bright, beautiful child. She was my joy, my reason, my anchor.
Five years passed. Lucía’s memory dulled into a wound that ached but no longer bled.
Until one day, an invitation arrived.
The Wedding
It was from Esteban, my closest friend from years past. He had joined the army, and though we lost touch, he wanted me at his wedding.
“Alma, would you like to go to Uncle Esteban’s wedding?” I asked her as she colored at the table.
“Will there be cake?” she asked seriously.
I laughed. “Yes, a big one.”
Her eyes lit up. “Then let’s go.”
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