When we kissed, the applause that followed sounded nothing like the applause at my parents’ dinner table months earlier.
That applause had celebrated denial.
This one honored endurance.
After the ceremony, many guests left quietly, giving us space. Some hugged me. Some hugged Diego.
My mother approached last, as though she knew anything sooner would have been selfish.
“I am sorry,” she said.
It was the first real apology I had ever heard from her, because it contained no defense. No mention of family pressure. No explanation about Valentina being difficult, sensitive, dramatic, pregnant, confused, wounded, younger, lost, fragile, special.
Just sorry.
My father stood beside her looking wrecked.
“I failed you,” he said.
That one hurt more, perhaps because it was true.
I did not forgive them in that moment. Forgiveness is not a curtain that falls because the right lines were finally spoken. But I thanked them for telling the truth, and I told them what would happen next.
“We’re taking space,” I said. “A lot of it. Do not call me to fix anything. Do not ask me to speak to her. Do not tell me she needs me. I am done carrying the weight of what she breaks.”
They both nodded.
For once, neither argued.