He looked directly at Catalina. “And I will always defend the woman who raised me.”
The room erupted in applause.
Catalina shrank.
The rest of the evening sparkled. People saw me—not as someone’s mother, not as outdated—but as a woman reclaiming joy.
Clarence squeezed my hand. “You’re radiant,” he whispered.
And I was.
The next morning, Catalina texted: You made me look bad.
I didn’t reply.
Because for the first time in my life, I understood something clearly:
Joy doesn’t have an expiration date. And pink? Pink looks just fine on a woman who finally chose herself.
