The questions were small, but they filled the house.
Every time you heard her voice, the empty rooms seemed to breathe again.
Then one evening, two years after graduation, she called and said, “Papá… I’m getting married.”
You went quiet. Not because you were angry. Not because you didn’t approve. But because in one second you saw her at every age all at once. Ten years old in mismatched socks. Fifteen with her nose in a schoolbook. Nineteen boarding the bus to Mexico City with a backpack too big for her shoulders. And now a woman, standing on the edge of a life where you would no longer be the center.
His name was Diego. He was an engineer from Monterrey. The wedding was held in Mexico City. You wore the oldest suit you owned and polished your shoes until you could almost see your face in them. When you walked your daughter down the aisle, your hands trembled so badly she squeezed your fingers and whispered, “Papá, don’t cry.”
You smiled.
The tears came anyway.
After the wedding, she moved to Monterrey with her husband. At the airport in Guadalajara, she hugged you longer than usual, so long that you felt something restless move inside your chest.
“Take care of yourself,” she said.
You nodded and replied, “Your father is fine.”
