Just fifteen minutes from the wedding, I discovered that the main table had been changed: nine seats for my husband’s family and my parents standing on one side. His mother mocked, “How pathetic they look.” Then I took the microphone and destroyed it in an instant.
The ceremony was to be held on a hacienda on the outskirts of Guadalajara, with bougainvillea, warm lights and a white tent where a trio of ropes already sounded. I was in the private room, finishing my grandmother’s earrings, when Mariana, my cousin and godmother, came in without a call. She came pale.
“Sofia, you have to come right now.
I didn’t like her tone. I got up in the dress in my hands and followed it down the service hallway to the living room. Upon entering, I saw three waiters moving cards on the main table. I thought it would be a last-minute adjustment, but then I read the names.
To the right of Diego’s site: Patricia and Roberto Mendoza, her parents. Then his sister, his brother-in-law, two uncles and three cousins. Nine seats. Nine.
