When Carmen announced that she was getting married at the age of eighty-nine, the family burst into laughter.
Not out of cruelty—out of shock.
Some even feared something worse: that old age had finally loosened her grip on reality.
“You’re getting married?” her eldest daughter asked, half anxious, half incredulous.
“Mom, you’ve been a widow for thirty years.”
“Exactly,” Carmen replied, her voice calm, almost serene.
“It’s time I made myself beautiful for someone again.”
No one knew how to respond.
Carmen lived alone in an aging apartment in the Triana neighborhood. Once, the place had been loud with life—children running through the halls, pots clanging in the kitchen, voices overlapping at dinner. Now it was quiet. Too quiet.
She had three children. Seven grandchildren. And one great-grandchild she had only ever seen in photographs sent hurriedly through a phone screen.
Visits had grown rare. And when they happened, they were rushed—brief hugs, polite questions, eyes constantly drifting toward the clock. Everyone was busy. Work. Families. Life moving faster than anyone could catch.
Carmen understood.
She never blamed them.
But after announcing her wedding, she began talking about things she hadn’t spoken of in years.
Dresses.
Flowers.
Music.
She spoke of a simple lunch.
A modest ceremony.
Nothing extravagant.
“And who’s the lucky man?” one grandson asked with a laugh.
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