Arturo called me 12 times that same night.
I was driving home with Valeria asleep in the back seat. She still had the hairstyle with small flowers they had done for the ceremony, but her face no longer held any emotion. She slept clutching the card she never got to give to her uncle.
I didn’t answer until I got to a gas station.
“Why did you leave?” Arturo asked me, his voice tense. “Brenda says you made a scene over a mistake at the banquet.”
I let out a dry laugh.
“A mistake? I’ll send you a photo.”
I sent him the image of the table layout.
Several seconds passed.
Then he said:
“Mariana… what is this?”
“That’s exactly what I want to know. Because it says there that your wife asked to remove Valeria from the menu and that they shouldn’t tell you.”
Arturo didn’t answer. All I could hear was background noise: laughter, music, clinking glasses. As if his world was still partying while mine was falling to pieces.
“Brenda told me there was probably some confusion with the children,” she murmured.
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