—Yes, —he said, —but not here. Not like this.
And, to everyone’s surprise, she took off her veil, placed it on a chair, and took my hand.
—Come with us.
Half an hour later, we left the hacienda, leaving behind the guests, my parents, and their impeccably decorated scandal. We went to downtown Guadalajara, to the office of the notary whom Álvaro knew through business. Clara entered in her wedding dress, I in gravel-covered heels, and he still with his jacket unbuttoned and his tie askew. There, without flowers, without music, and without any family ties to interfere with the ceremony, they were married in a civil ceremony, with two employees as witnesses, and me signing alongside my sister.
It wasn’t a lavish wedding. It was a sincere wedding.
Two months later, I filed a lawsuit. Not only for the misappropriation of funds, but also for the mismanagement of my grandfather’s inheritance. The process was slow, complicated, and at times humiliating, because wealthy families never give up without a fight. But in the end, it was concluded. An out-of-court settlement was reached: the full refund of the money, adjusted for inflation, plus interest, and an asset declaration that revealed other tax loopholes my father would have preferred to keep hidden. It didn’t make me happy. Justice rarely does. But it gave me back something more precious than the sum deposited in my account.
It gave me the true version of my story.
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