She didn’t say it loudly. She didn’t need to. She leaned toward my son, certain no one else could hear her. But I was only a few steps away, standing beside the wreaths, my hands frozen, my heart turning to stone. Those six words cut deeper than any empty condolence ever could.
The morning of Elena’s funeral in Guadalajara was strangely bright. Sunlight poured through the stained-glass windows of San José Church, as if the world refused to acknowledge that the woman I had loved for thirty-two years was gone. People approached me with quiet words of comfort, offering phrases meant to soothe a grief that could not be soothed.
“She’s at peace now.”
“She’s resting.”
“She was an extraordinary woman.”
I nodded, but inside, it felt as if my chest had been filled with something heavy and suffocating.
My son, Daniel, arrived late—his tie crooked, his eyes red, his beard unshaven. When he hugged me, his body trembled.
“Sorry, Dad,” he whispered. “I should’ve been here sooner.”
I held him close, unable to speak.
Vanessa followed behind him.