Five years after losing my wife, my daughter and I went to my best friend’s wedding. But my world crumbled when he lifted the bride’s veil. As my daughter whispered, “Daddy, why are you crying?” the bride looked into my eyes… and in that instant, everything fell apart.

I had never planned to go to that party. It was my colleague Marcos who dragged me away, swearing he would help me “get out of this funk.”

I’d been working double shifts at the construction site for weeks, and my body felt like it was made of cement.

“Just an hour,” Marcos insisted, practically pushing me out the door of an apartment in the center of Madrid. “Then you go home and you’re still a hermit.”

Funny, the most important moments always come when you least expect them.

The party was packed with people who looked like they hadn’t lifted anything heavier than a glass of wine. In my worn jeans and old T-shirt, I felt out of place.

But then I saw her. Lucía.

She shouldn’t have been there either. I knew later she’d just gone to drop something off for a friend.

Our eyes met across the room, and something clicked. Sparks, connection, whatever you want to call it; I knew I wanted her to be a part of my life.

“Who’s that?” I asked Marcos, nodding my head in her direction.

He followed my gaze and whistled softly. “Lucía. Don’t even try it, man. Her family owns half of Madrid.”

But I was already walking toward her.

She smiled when she saw me approaching, and that smile hit me like a hammer.

“I’m Javier,” I said, extending my hand.

“Lucía,” she replied, her voice soft but confident. Her hand was small in mine, but her grip was firm. “You look as uncomfortable here as I am.”

We talked for hours that night. It wasn’t what I expected (no daddy’s girl attitude, just warmth and genuine curiosity), and by the time I walked her to her car, I knew I was in trouble.

“My parents would hate you,” she said, the moonlight illuminating her dark hair.

“Is that a problem?” I asked.

She looked at me with eyes that seemed to pierce right through me. “Probably. But I don’t think I care.”

Six months later, we were married. Her parents didn’t come to the wedding. They completely disowned her: no inheritance, no family gatherings, nothing.

But Lucía just squeezed my hand and said, “I don’t care about money. I just want you.”

And for a while, that was enough.

We moved into a small two-bedroom apartment. I worked on construction sites by day and studied architectural design at night. Lucía got a job at a gallery. We were happy, or so I thought.

Until Alma was born, and something changed. The sparkle in Lucía’s eyes began to dim. She began to compare our life with the one she’d left behind.

“My college roommate just bought a house on the coast,” she commented one night as we ate macaroni in our small kitchen. Alma slept in her crib next to us.

“That’s great,” I replied, without looking up from the floor plans I was studying.

“She invited us to come. I had to tell her we couldn’t afford it.”

Her words pierced me. “We’re fine, Lucía. Things will get better.”

“When?” she asked, her voice cutting. “When Alma goes to college? When we retire? I’m sick of waiting for the ‘best,’ Javier.”

The arguments became more frequent. She hated sticking to a budget, despised our humble life.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” she said.

As if I’d cheated on her. As if love had to pay the bills.

“You knew who I was when you married me,” I reminded her during a particularly bitter argument.

“Maybe that was the mistake,” she replied coldly. “I thought you’d be more by now.”

The next day, I returned early from work with flowers to surprise her. The house was silent.

The suitcase and all her things were gone.

In the crib, I found a note:

“I want a divorce. I’m sorry, but our marriage was a mistake. I left Alma with Mrs. Martinez on the fifth floor. Keep her.”

I called her cell phone a hundred times. No answer. I went to her parents’ mansion, desperate, my eyes wide open.

The security guard wouldn’t let me in.

“You’re not welcome here, sir,” he said, almost sympathetic.

“Please, I just need to talk to Lucía,” I begged.

“Sir, you have to go.”

Two days later, I received the divorce papers. Lucía had renounced parental rights over Alma. Her father’s lawyers handled everything with brutal efficiency.

Then came the final blow.

Six months after she left, I called her parents’ house for the last time.

“She’s dead,” her mother told me in a flat voice. “Lucía was in a car accident. Don’t call again. You meant nothing to her.”

She hung up.

I collapsed on the kitchen floor, crying until Alma woke up, crying too.

They didn’t even let me see her grave. They erased her from my life as if she’d never existed.

I threw myself into work and raising Alma. I finished my studies and started designing houses instead of just building them. People noticed my talent.

Within three years, I had my own company. Alma grew up a bright and happy girl, just like her mother.

Five years passed. Life went on, and the pain became a faint throb.

Until the invitation arrived.

Esteban, my best friend of years, was getting married. We’d lost touch after he enlisted in the army, but now he wanted me at his wedding.

“What do you think, Almita? Are we going to see Uncle Esteban get married?” I asked while coloring.

“Will there be a cake?” she asked seriously.

I laughed. “Yes, a big, elegant one.”

“Then let’s go,” she decided, returning to her drawing.

The wedding was at a resort on the coast, filled with white flowers and an ocean breeze. Esteban hugged me tightly when we arrived.

“Dude, look at you! Such a winner,” he said, tapping me on the arm. “And this beauty must be Alma.”

Alma smiled shyly.

The ceremony was beautiful. Guests filled the white chairs on the beach. Alma sat next to me, wiggling her feet and playing with the flower I’d put in her hair.

The music started, and everyone stood up.

The bride walked down the aisle, her veil covering her face.

And then the moment arrived.

Esteban smiled as she approached. When he reached her, he gently lifted her veil.

I stopped breathing. Tears streamed down before I realized I was crying.
Alma looked at me, confused. “Daddy, why are you crying?”

I froze, staring at the ghost of my dead ex-wife in a wedding dress.

Lucia smiled at the guests, but her eyes widened when she saw me with our daughter.

And then she ran off.

Esteban called after her, bewildered, but she had already disappeared. I stood up, my legs shaking.

“Keep her.” And in the end, I realized that the best revenge had been to build a happy life without her.