Not after all the years I spent wearing nothing but the same dull colors, blending into the background of my own life. But there I was–standing before a mirror, zipping up the bodice of an elegant ivory dress, and for the first time in decades, feeling like a bride.
A real bride.
My heart fluttered as I smoothed the fabric, thinking about how surreal it all felt. In just a few days, I would finally board the cruise ship I had dreamed about for most of my life–but this time, not as an afterthought. Not as someone begging for a promise to be fulfilled. No, this time I would step onto that ship as a woman in love… marrying the man who saw me, cherished me, and wanted me not for convenience–but for who I was.
Lorenzo.
Sometimes I still asked him, “Are you sure?”
And every single time, he would laugh and pull me close, whispering, “More sure than I’ve ever been about anything.”
He promised our love would last forever. And for once, I believed it.
Planning the wedding kept me busy, but so did the gallery. Ever since the firestorm from the media settled, people had started noticing my work–not just as a curiosity or some dramatic tale of the ex–housewife turned artist, but truly noticing. Appreciating. Buying.
Then, one afternoon, as I was juggling calls about table arrangements and floral shipments, Lorenzo came rushing into the gallery, his face lit with excitement.
“They want it,” he said breathlessly. “The international group–the one in Paris–they want your painting in their annual auction!”
I blinked, stunned. “What? My painting?”
He nodded. “They said your work captures emotion like a conversation frozen in time. Joyce, this is huge.”
I sat down, overwhelmed. My hands trembled with disbelief.
It felt like I was twenty–five again–before I put away my brushes, before I traded in my art for laundry and dishes.
Back then, I had dreams of galleries and auctions. I had dreams of being known, heard,
seen.
And now,
somehow, those dreams hadn’t died. They had simply been delayed.
Later that evening, Lorenzo and I celebrated over wine and laughter. He announced that he would be opening a second gallery, and he wanted me to help curate it.
I didn’t know when I had last felt so full–of joy, of hope, of life.
The gallery was buzzing with guests the night of the announcement. Music filled the room, art collectors mingled, champagne flowed freely, and everywhere I turned, I saw people
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I didn’t know when I had last felt so full–of joy, of hope, of life.
The gallery was buzzing with guests the night of the announcement. Music filled the room, art collectors mingled, champagne flowed freely, and everywhere I turned, I saw people
appreciating the very things I once hid in boxes.
And then–I saw him.
Mateo. My son.
He stood at the entrance, holding a bouquet of lilies and roses–my favorites.
I froze. The last time we spoke, he called me evil. Now here he was, older in the eyes but still the same boy I had held in my arms all those nights when he cried about monsters under the bed.
I straightened my back and walked up to him, steady and firm.
“If you’re here to ruin my day, please don’t,” I said, not harshly, but truthfully. “I’ve had enough. I took care of you for years–your meals, your clothes, your life–and if you came to take more from me, I won’t let you. Let me be happy now.”
Lorenzo stood nearby, protective and calm, but Mateo raised a hand.
“No,” he said softly. “I’m not here to ruin anything. I just… I wanted to say congratulations. And give you these.”
He held out the flowers. I took them, slowly.
“My wife, Sasha… she’s pregnant,” he added. “You’re going to be a grandmother.”
I blinked. The word hit harder than I expected.
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked, not accusing–just confused.
“Because you deserve to know,” he said. “And… because I’m sorry.”
I looked at him, long and quiet.
He continued, “Dad and Grandpa… they’re sorry too.
Grandpa hasn’t come to see you because he’s ashamed. He found out the truth. About Maine. He confronted her.”
My throat tightened. I thought about all those years I had spent carrying a guilt that was never mine. All those lonely nights. All those silences that weighed more than words.
“I’m sorry I never believed you,” Mateo said. “I just thought Maine was the one who had it all together. She made everything look so easy. But I see now what you gave up. What you
survived.”
I didn’t cry. I wanted to. But instead, I nodded.
“Thank you,” I said.
He hesitated. “We’re having a small party when the baby’s born. I hope.. maybe… you’ll come?”
“I’ll think about it,” I said. It wasn’t a yes. But it wasn’t a no either.
I turned to walk away. my heart aching in a way I couldn’t name. But before I reached the
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I looked at him, long and quiet.
He continued, “Dad and Grandpa… they’re sorry too.
Grandpa hasn’t come to see you because he’s ashamed. He found out the truth. About Maine. He confronted her.”
My throat tightened. I thought about all those years I had spent carrying a guilt that was never mine. All those lonely nights. All those silences that weighed more than words.
“I’m sorry I never believed you,” Mateo said. “I just thought Maine was the one who had it all together. She made everything look so easy. But I see now what you gave up. What you survived.”
I didn’t cry. I wanted to. But instead, I nodded.
“Thank you,” I said.
He hesitated. “We’re having a small party when the baby’s born. I hope… maybe… you’ll come?”
“I’ll think about it,” I said. It wasn’t a yes. But it wasn’t a no either.
I turned to walk away, my heart aching in a way I couldn’t name. But before I reached the hallway, his voice stopped me.
“Mom–there’s one more thing.” I turned slightly.
“Dad… he’s in the hospital.”
My heart dropped.
“What?”
“He got into an accident,” Mateo said. “The night you got engaged. He was drunk. Drove straight into a railing. He’s stable… but it’s bad.”
