The day we laid my wife, Lucía, to rest, our daughter María didn’t come.
I still remember the overcast sky above the Valencia cemetery, the strained silence among the few relatives who attended, and the empty space where she should have been standing. Lucía had passed after a long illness, and although our marriage had been distant for years, I never imagined saying goodbye without our daughter beside me. My hands shook as I pulled out my phone and called her.
“María… your mother is gone,” I said, my voice breaking.
Something inside me shattered. I didn’t argue or raise my voice. I ended the call and returned to the coffin. In that moment, I made a decision I had avoided for years. Lucía and I had grown emotionally apart long before her death, but legally everything was still in place. And I knew things María didn’t—uncomfortable truths about money, sacrifice, and quiet betrayals. Continue reading…
