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“I saw the dress hanging inside the wardrobe. I knew from the moment I saw it what it had to be. Later, I asked Marco, and he told me everything.” Her smile wavers. “I didn’t cut it. I swear. I found a loose piece from an old repair folded in the pocket of the garment bag. Your neighbor, Señora Elvira, helped me stitch it inside my gown.”
By now, you are crying too.
Not elegantly. Not in the composed, cinematic way women cry in television dramas. You cry like someone whose dignity has been held underwater too long and has suddenly found air. Your shoulders shake. Your throat hurts. Every year of carrying yourself carefully so no one would see what life had cost you seems to loosen all at once.
Lara looks back toward the altar.
Then at the priest.
Then at the congregation.
