Four months after my divorce, my ex-wife sent me a wedding invitation.
Clinging to a curiosity I didn’t want to admit, I put on the old suit I’d worn on our wedding day and drove alone to the hacienda where the event would be held.
I just wanted to know—who was the man she’d chosen instead of me?
But when I saw the groom come out… I covered my face with my hands, regretting it like never before.
Mariana and I had been together for three years before we got married. Our first few months as husband and wife were like a soft bolero: uneventful, but full of affection.
She had a sweet, almost shy appearance, but inside she was strong, clever, always ready to untangle any mess in our daily lives.
I… was the typical “good enough” man: I didn’t drink excessively, I didn’t gamble, I worked hard.
But I failed at the essential thing: listening to her.
My job in real estate in Mexico City was a constant pressure. I always had the perfect excuse:
“I’m busy… it’s for our future.”
And while I said that, Mariana would sit across from me, waiting for a look, a word, anything.
But I was always glued to my phone, my laptop… or to the silence.
Over time, I stopped knowing if she was sad or happy.
We didn’t fight.
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