“He’s very punctual,” Carmen answered.
“He’s never late.”
The sentence lingered in the air, strange and puzzling.
Still, Carmen prepared as if it were all real.
She visited a seamstress and asked for a plain white dress—no lace, no excess. She chose low white shoes, practical and soft. She ordered a small bouquet of jasmine, the same flower she had worn on her wedding day more than sixty years earlier.
She even went to city hall to ask about the paperwork.
“Are you sure, ma’am?” the clerk asked gently.
“More sure than many brides you’ve seen walk through these doors,” Carmen replied, smiling.
Eventually, the family accepted it. They told themselves it was her way of closing a chapter. Of feeling alive again.
The wedding was scheduled for a Saturday in May.
And somehow, everyone came.
Children who hadn’t spoken to each other in months.
Grandchildren who barely remembered her full name.
Even a sister traveled from Valencia, leaning on a cane, eyes already wet with emotion.
The church was nearly empty—only family. No decorations beyond a few flowers. A pianist played softly, filling the space with quiet melodies.
Carmen entered dressed in white, walking arm in arm with her youngest grandson.
She was smiling.
Her eyes glistened with tears.
“Grandma,” he whispered, “where’s the groom?”
Carmen looked toward the altar.
“He’ll arrive.”
They waited.
Five minutes.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Whispers began to ripple through the pews.
“Poor thing…”
“She’s not well…”
“She must have imagined it…”
Carmen raised her hand and asked for the microphone.
“Thank you all for coming,” she said.
Her voice trembled—but not from age.
“There will be no groom today. There never was one.”
A heavy silence fell over the church.
“I was never truly going to get married,” she continued.
“I just needed a believable reason for all of you to be here. Together. For me.”
Some lowered their eyes.
Others covered their mouths, tears escaping despite themselves.
“Since your father died,” she said to her children,
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