Her fingers tightened around her handbag.
“I’m not going to allow that.”
Marco stayed quiet for a moment.
He thought of Lucía drawing butterflies, unaware her mother was leaving. He thought about how unfair it was for someone else to decide the story the world tells about your life.
Then he looked up.
“Where is your daughter now?”
“In the hallway. She always takes three deep breaths before entering a place she doesn’t want to be. She’s done it since she was a child.”
Elena’s voice softened.
“I just need it to be different when she walks in. A different scene. One where no one can turn it into a spectacle.”
Marco inhaled deeply.
“If we’re going to do this, I need to be able to talk to her like I know her. Tell me something about her.”
Elena smiled faintly for the first time.
“She’s passionate about architecture. She loves old movies. And she believes good bookstores no longer exist.”
“And something only a mother would know?”
Elena thought for a moment.
“When she’s nervous, she touches the back of her left ear, like she’s checking if her earring is still there.”
Marco nodded.
“Good.”
He adjusted his posture and turned slightly toward the main entrance. He didn’t need to ask what Valeria looked like.
At that moment, the doors opened.
The woman who entered wore a dark red dress, the color of deep wine under the light. Later, Marco wouldn’t be able to explain exactly what left him speechless at first sight. It wasn’t just the dress, though it was beautiful. It wasn’t just her face—calm, clear, with a kind of beauty shaped more by strength than vanity.
It was the way she walked.
Valeria walked like someone who, after enduring enough pain, had decided to stop apologizing for existing.
Back straight. Chin lifted. Steps steady.
But for a split second, as her eyes moved across the room, Marco caught something else: the quick search for a familiar face—and the quiet preparation for not finding one.
Then he raised his hand and greeted her calmly, as if he had been expecting her all along.
As if, of course, she would come in.
As if there were nowhere else in the room he would rather look.
Valeria stopped.
She looked at Marco. Then at her mother.
Elena gave her a flawless smile and gently tapped the empty chair beside them.
Valeria walked over.
Marco stood as she approached, without hesitation. It was instinct—something his father had always done when his mother entered a room. A simple, old gesture he had inherited without realizing it.
“You must be Marco,” she said.
Her voice was deeper than he expected, steady and assured.
“I’ve heard good things.”
“I hope they haven’t exaggerated,” he replied.
Valeria gave a small smile and sat down. She glanced at her mother with a questioning look.
“You look beautiful,” Elena said naturally. “Red was the right choice.”
“You’re the one who told me a thousand times never to wear red to a wedding.”
“Sometimes I make mistakes,” Elena replied. “It’s rare—but it happens.”
Something warm stirred in Marco’s chest as he listened. There was an intimacy in the way mother and daughter spoke—years of shared history folded into just a few words.
Elena poured more tea.
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