I actually smiled.
“Can you help us find something for the same date?”
“How many people?”
“Thirty, maybe forty.”
“Give me an hour.”
Monica hung up.
I opened my laptop.
Hector watched me.
“What are you doing?”
“Correcting the story.”
I wrote carefully.
Dear family and friends,
Hector and I remain happily engaged and are still celebrating on the original date. Because of a change in circumstances, the event will now be smaller and held at a restaurant. Anyone who already planned to be with us is warmly welcome.
No accusations.
No mention of Mom.
No mention of Berenice.
Just truth.
I posted it.
Responses came immediately.
Some relatives were confused.
Some had already changed flights.
Others confirmed.
Hector’s family filled nearly an entire page of my notebook in twenty minutes.
Javier and Elena.
Monica.
Aunts.
Uncles.
Cousins.
Friends.
Thirty people.
From my family, fewer.
I stared at the two columns.
Hector reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
“Look at the people coming.”
“I am.”
“No. You’re looking at the people who aren’t.”
He was right.
At ten-twenty, Monica called.
“I have a room.”
“Where?”
“Bellini’s.”
I froze.
Bellini’s was the small Italian restaurant where Hector took me on our first real date.
“They have a private dining room?”
“They had a cancellation.”
My eyes filled.
“How much?”
“Less than your mother probably lost canceling the flowers.”
“Monica.”
“What? Too soon?”
Hector laughed.
I wiped my eyes.
“Book it.”
The next morning, while I was getting ready for work, my phone rang.
Armando.
I almost ignored it.
We had never been close, but we had always gotten along.
He was one of the few people at family gatherings who asked questions and waited for answers.
I picked up.
“Hi.”
“Jimena.”
His voice sounded tired.
“I saw your post.”
I sat on the edge of the bed.
“I’m sorry.”
“I wanted to congratulate you and Hector.”
“Thank you.”
“I obviously won’t be at the celebration.”
“I understand.”
There was a silence.
Then I said something I immediately regretted.
“Armando, why did you do it?”
Another silence.
“Do what?”
“What happened with Berenice.”
He let out a breath.
“What did she tell you?”
My stomach tightened.
“She said you were the reason the marriage ended.”
He gave a sad, humorless laugh.
“Of course.”
I stood.
“What does that mean?”
“It means the story is backwards.”
I sat down again.
Armando spoke slowly.
He did not give me intimate details.
He did not insult my sister.
He simply explained that he had discovered messages, travel records, and other evidence showing Berenice had been maintaining private relationships outside their marriage.
More than once.
He had confronted her.
She left Dallas with the children.
Then began telling relatives that he was solely responsible.
I closed my eyes.
“Do my parents know?”
“Yes.”
That answer hurt more than anything else.
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“When?”
“Before Berenice got to San Antonio.”
My hand went cold around the phone.
“I sent your father copies of some messages because I was worried she would change the story.”
“And Mom?”
“I spoke to her.”