“Antonio?” a voice called, soft and distant. I turned. My sister‑in‑law, Marta, stood a few rows ahead, her hair damp, her eyes red. She mouthed a word I could not hear, then turned away, wiping tears with the back of her hand. The crowd shifted, murmuring prayers, the rustle of paper programs, the occasional cough.
I had spent the past twelve years watching Laura grow from a squealing infant into a woman who could hold her own in a boardroom. After my wife—her mother—died in a car accident when Laura was ten, I had taken on two jobs, the night shift at the factory and mornings at the grocery, just to keep the lights on and to pay for her tuition. When she married Daniel, I had felt a strange relief, a hope that perhaps I could finally lay down the weight of being the sole parent.
