Tomorrow, I marry Laura, the woman who has patiently waited for me for three years. Everything is ready—the two families have carefully prepared the wedding, and the excitement fills the air. Yet, deep inside my heart, there remains a shadow I cannot erase: the memory of Mariana, my first wife, who tragically passed away in a car accident four years ago.
That day remains etched in my mind like a scar that refuses to fade. Mariana had left early that morning to go to the market and prepare a special meal for my father’s death anniversary. It was just another ordinary day, or so I thought. Then came the phone call that shattered my world into pieces: “Your wife has been in an accident… we did everything we could, but she didn’t survive.”
When I arrived at the hospital, her lifeless body lay still, but her face carried the sweet, familiar smile I had loved so deeply. It felt as if the entire world had collapsed beneath my feet. There was no air to breathe, no light to see. Everything turned dark.
For a year, I lived like a ghost. The house we had built together, filled with laughter and love, became cold and empty. Every corner reminded me of her, and even the smallest things—like the scent of the fabric softener she used—would reduce me to tears. Friends and family tried to convince me to move on, to rebuild my life, but I couldn’t. I shook my head every time. I believed I was unworthy of anyone else, and I thought I would never be able to love again.
Then Laura appeared. She was a new colleague at work, five years younger than me. She didn’t push herself into my life or try to fix me. She was patient, kind, and quietly supportive. Slowly, her presence began to thaw the ice around my heart. When I remembered Mariana, Laura would sit beside me without saying a word and offer me a cup of tea. When the noise of the streets brought back the trauma of the accident, she would hold my hand until I felt calm again. For three years, she never asked me to forget the past; she simply waited, with infinite patience, for me to open my heart again.
And so, I decided to marry her. But before taking that step, I felt I owed it to Mariana to visit her grave, clean it, and light incense for her. I wanted to believe that, wherever she was, she would want me to find happiness and move forward.
That afternoon, the sky was gray, and a soft drizzle fell. The cemetery was quiet, with only the sound of the wind rustling through the eucalyptus trees. I carried white flowers, a cloth, and a package of candles. With trembling hands, I placed the chrysanthemums on her grave and whispered:
“Mariana, tomorrow I’m marrying another woman. I know that if you were still alive, you’d want me to find someone to share my life with. I’ll never forget you, but I must move forward… I can’t let Laura wait any longer.”
A tear fell unnoticed as I cleaned the headstone. Suddenly, I heard soft footsteps behind me. I turned, my eyes still red from crying. Standing before me was a woman in her thirties, slim, wearing a light brown coat. Her hair was tousled by the wind, and her eyes carried a melancholic glow.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she said, her voice trembling.
I nodded, wiping my tears. “It’s okay… are you visiting someone?”
She hesitated for a moment, then glanced at the grave next to Mariana’s and replied, “I came to visit my sister. She died in a car accident… four years ago.”
My heart stopped. I read the nearby headstone: Gabriela Ramírez – 1992-2019. The same date Mariana had passed away.
“Your sister… died the same day as my wife.”
Her eyes widened in surprise as she looked at me intensely. “Your wife also died that day?”
I nodded and briefly recounted what had happened. Her eyes filled with tears as she placed a bouquet of white lilies on her sister’s grave.
“That day Gabriela was traveling with a friend… I never imagined it would be her last journey,” she said, sobbing.
The silence of the cemetery enveloped us. I felt a strange connection, as though the pain of two strangers had intertwined by chance. We introduced ourselves—her name was Isabel, and mine was Daniel. We stayed a while longer, talking about those we had lost. She told me about Gabriela—how cheerful, optimistic, and passionate about music she had been. I spoke about Mariana—her sweetness, her selflessness, and how much she had meant to me. There was pain in our eyes, but also a glimmer of tenderness as we reminisced about beautiful memories.
The next day, my wedding with Laura took place surrounded by family and friends. She looked radiant in white, and everyone congratulated us for finding happiness again. But deep inside me, the image of Isabel at the cemetery lingered.
Fate, unpredictable as ever, crossed our paths again. I discovered that Isabel worked at a supplier company for mine. Seeing her in a meeting, she barely whispered, “Daniel…”
We had coffee after work. Isabel confessed, “Since Gabriela died, I’ve buried myself in work. But there are still nights when I cry for no reason. Meeting you that day at the cemetery made me feel I wasn’t alone in this pain.”
I listened and realized there was an invisible bond between us—a shared grief. But I also knew that bond was dangerous. I had just married; I couldn’t allow myself to fall into emotional confusion.
Over time, Isabel and I crossed paths several more times. Our conversations grew longer, deeper. I shared things with her that I never told Laura. And that tormented me.
One night, unable to keep hiding it, I decided to confess everything to my wife. I told her about the cemetery encounter, about Isabel, and about the conversations that followed.
Laura remained silent for a long time. I thought she would be angry, but finally, she said: “Daniel, I waited for you for three years. I’m not afraid of Isabel. Because I know love isn’t pity or coincidence—it’s a choice. I just want you to have the courage to decide what you truly want. If you’ll be happier with her, I’ll let go.”
Her words pierced my heart like a dagger. Then I understood that true love isn’t just about shared wounds; it’s about sacrifice, trust, and faith in each other. From that day forward, I chose Laura—not because I wanted to forget the past, but because I realized she was the one who had helped me heal and move forward.
Sometimes, in quiet moments, I remember Isabel’s sad eyes and her question: “Are you with someone who only reminds you of your wounds, or with someone who helps you heal them?”
And I understood that my encounter with Isabel wasn’t meant to start a new love story—it was meant to remind me that I didn’t have to carry my pain alone. I had Laura, and with her, I learned to live fully again.
