“There is nothing to cancel legally. We are not married.”
That sentence hits him harder than anything else.
He had forgotten too.
Or he had trusted that the party, the guests, the dress, the music, and your love would become a cage even without papers.
But the registry appointment was still days away.
And now it would never happen.
At least not with the woman you were yesterday.
You step back.
“The jewelry is with a notary. Any communication about it goes through Paola or through my attorney. As for us, I need space.”
“How much space?”
“Enough to hear myself think without your mother shouting through you.”
He lowers his head.
“I love you.”
You close your eyes.
That still hurts.
Because you love him too.
Or loved him.
Or love the version of him that almost existed.
“I know,” you say. “But love that kneels before fear becomes another kind of fear.”
You go inside.
Your father closes the door.
Diego remains outside for twenty minutes.
Then leaves the flowers by the gate.
Your mother throws them away.
That afternoon, Teresa makes her second mistake.
She sends a family-wide voice note.
It begins with tears.
It ends with threats.
She says you insulted her house. She says you stole family jewels. She says your parents manipulated you because they never liked Diego’s family. She says educated women are difficult because they think papers matter more than respect.
Then she says:
“Until Lucía returns the gold and apologizes, we will not recognize her as Diego’s wife.”
You replay that line three times.
Then you send one written response to the entire group.
Thank you for confirming that I am not recognized as Diego’s wife. Since no civil marriage has been signed, I agree. The jewelry is deposited with a notary pending clarification. Further defamatory statements will be documented.
No emojis.
No insults.
No begging.
The chat explodes.
