Whispers crept between seats like crawling insects.
“Do you think she’s coming?”
“Poor man…”
“I could never marry someone in a wheelchair…”
Fernando’s fingers dug into the armrests. He’d learned to survive pity. The stares. The cruelty disguised as sympathy.
But today—of all days—he expected more.
His mother approached, dressed in elegant navy blue, eyes red as if she’d been holding tears back for days.
“My son… are you sure about this?”
“Mom. Please. Not now.”
“It’s just that… Marcela’s been distant. The delays. The excuses. The way she looks at you when—”
“That’s enough.”
His voice cut sharper than he intended.
Continue on the next page:
