“Tomorrow I’ll marry Laura, the woman who waited faithfully for me for three long years. Everything is ready; both families have prepared the wedding with care. Yet in the depths of my heart, there lingers a dark shadow: the memory of Mariana, my first wife, who perished in a tragic car cra:sh four years ago.”
That day remains scorched into my mind like a scar. Mariana had gone early to the market to buy food for my father’s passing anniversary. Then came the call that smashed me:
“Your wife has been in an acci:dent… we tried everything, but she didn’t make it.” When I arrived, her b0dy was already cold, though her lips still held the gentle smile I knew so well. I felt as if the ground collapsed beneath me.
For a whole year I drifted like a ghost.
The house we built together transfered into a silent, desolate shell. Whenever I opened the closet and caught the scent of her favorite fabric softener, I fell apart. Friends and relatives urged me to move on, but I always shook my head. I was satisfied I was undeserving of anyone and incompetent of loving again.
Then Laura came into my life. She was a new colleague, five years my junior. She never pressured me, never forced her way in, yet her quiet kindness made me realize my heart could still feel warmth. Whenever Mariana came to mind, Laura would sit by me and pour a cup of tea.
When sudden noises made me relive the crash, she would squeeze my hand until I calmed down. For three years, she never demanded I forget the past; she simply waited with endless patience for me to open my heart.
So I chose to marry her. But before taking that step, I felt compelled to visit Mariana, clean her grave, and burn incense for her. I wanted to believe that, wherever she was, she would also wish me happiness.
That afternoon, a light drizzle fell. The cemetery was disused, the only sound the rustle of wind in the eucalyptus leaves. I brought white blossoms, a cloth, and a few candles. With trembling hands, I laid the chrysanthemums on the grave and muttered:
“Mariana, tomorrow I’m marrying another woman. I believe that if you were still here, you’d want me to have someone beside me. I’ll never erase you, but I must move forward… I can’t let Laura wait forever.”
A tear escaped without my noticing. As I wiped the stone, faint footsteps sounded behind me.
I turned, my eyes still damp. A slim woman in her thirties stood there, dressed in a pale brown coat. The wind tousled her hair, and sadness shimmered in her gaze.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said, her voice quivering.
I nodded, brushing my face.
“It’s alright… are you here visiting someone?”
She hesitated, then glanced at the stone beside mine.
“I came to see my sister. She di:ed in a car cra:sh… four years ago.”
My heart froze. I read the inscription: Gabriela Ramírez – 1992–2019. The very date
Mariana had passed away
“Her sister… passed the same day as my wife.”
Her eyes widened as she asked,
“Your wife passed away that day too?”
I nodded, briefly recounting the tragedy. Her eyes glistened as she placed lilies on Gabriela’s grave.
“That day Gabriela went on a trip with a friend… I never thought it would be her last,” she whispered.
Silence wrapped the cemetery. I felt an odd bond, as if our griefs had unexpectedly intertwined.
As we parted, she told me,
“I’m Isabel.”
“I’m Daniel,” I replied.
We lingered, speaking of the ones we lost. She described Gabriela’s joy, her optimism, her passion for music. I spoke of Mariana’s tenderness, her constant care for others. There was sorrow in our eyes, but also tenderness as we remembered them with love.
The next day, my wedding with Laura was held among family and friends.
She looked radiant in her gown, and all congratulated us for finding joy again. Yet within me, the image of Isabel at the cemetery still lingered.
Fate, mischievous, made us cross paths again. I explored she worked for a firm supplying mine. At our first meeting she barely handled to murmur,
“Daniel…”
Later we shared coffee. Isabel confided,
“Since Gabriela died, I’ve buried myself in work. But many nights I still cry without knowing why. Meeting you that day at the cemetery made me feel less alone in my grief.”
I listened and realized we were linked by invisible threads of sorrow. Yet I knew this tie was dangerous. I was newly married; I couldn’t let emotions lead me astray.
Still, time brought more encounters with Isabel. Our talks grew longer, deeper. I told her things I’d never told Laura. And it tormented me.
One night, unable to keep hiding, I confessed everything to Laura. I told her about the cemetery, about Isabel, about our talks.
Laura was silent for a long while. I braced for anger, but she finally said,
“Daniel, I waited three years. I’m not afraid of Isabel. Because love isn’t pity or chance—it’s a decision. I only want you to choose honestly. If she makes you happier, I’ll know how to step aside.”
Her words pierced me like a blade.
Then I realized true love isn’t just sharing wounds—it’s sacrifice, trust, and faith.
From then on, I kept Isabel strictly within business. I selected Laura, because she was the one who truly helped me live again. The past had to rest, and the woman who pulled me forward was at my side.
Sometimes, in silence, I recall Isabel’s sorrowful eyes and her question:
“Are you with someone who only reflects your wounds, or with someone who helps you heal them?”
And I knew that meeting her was never to spark new love, but to remind me I wasn’t alone in my grief. I had Laura, and with her, I could truly learn to live.
Since that day, my life has been changed. Not by a triangle, but by understanding how to cherish the present, release the past, and move forward.
