Respiré una vez. Solo una.
—Quiero pedir disculpas —dije— a mis padres, que hoy han sido humillados en su propia cara en la boda de su hija.
Un murmullo inmediato recorrió las mesas vacías y los invitados que ya estaban entrando desde el jardín. Vi a mi madre levantar una mano, pidiéndome en silencio que parara. Mi padre no se movió. Tenía esa expresión quieta que siempre le salía cuando hacía un esfuerzo enorme por no perder la dignidad.
“Less than five minutes ago I found that the main table has been modified without consulting me. Nine seats have been reserved for my future husband’s family. My parents have been pushed aside, standing practically, as if they were doing them a favor for letting them in.
The coordinator of the event looked down. I kept talking.
“When I asked why, I was told that Mrs. Patricia Mendoza assured that this decision was approved by the groom.
At that moment, Diego appeared through the side entrance. He came from the parking lot, with the knot of the tie loose and the mobile still in hand. Hearing his name and seeing that I was in front of the lectern, he went white.
“Sofia, come down that right now,” he said, walking fast toward me.
I didn’t listen to him.
“And when I asked for explanations, the mother of the groom has looked at my parents and said, literally, ‘How pathetic you look.’
