“I began disappearing too. I don’t blame you—life moves fast. But I was left behind.”
Then she turned to her grandchildren.
“I didn’t want to die like a notification skimmed and forgotten. I invented a wedding because… people always show up for weddings.”
No one spoke.
“I won’t be getting married today,” Carmen concluded softly.
“But I wanted to live something with you—before I go.”
She sat down.
And then, something unexpected happened.
Her eldest daughter stood.
Walked toward her.
Held her mother for a long, silent moment.
“Forgive me, Mom.”
Then another child stood.
Then another.
Then the grandchildren.
The church filled with awkward embraces, genuine tears, trembling laughter.
That “fake” ceremony became a real celebration—
stories shared, food passed around, photographs taken, promises whispered and meant.
Two months later, Carmen died peacefully in her bed.
But she did not die alone.
From that day on, her family returned—to visit, to call, to stay present.
One of her grandchildren later wrote:
“My grandmother didn’t fake a wedding because she was confused.
She did it because she was clear-minded.
She knew that sometimes, love needs an excuse to come back.”
See more on the next page
Advertisement
