PART 1

“Today feels like a day for celebration.”

That was what my daughter-in-law said while my wife was inside the coffin.

She did not shout it. She did not need to. She whispered it, leaning toward my son, believing no one else had heard her. But I was less than two meters away, standing beside the wreaths, with frozen hands and a heart turned to stone. And those six words pierced me worse than any badly spoken condolence ever could.

The morning of Elena’s funeral dawned far too bright in Guadalajara. The sun came through the stained-glass windows of Saint Joseph’s parish as if the world did not understand that my wife of thirty-two years had just left. Outside, people squeezed my shoulder and repeated the same things in soft voices, as if there were a correct phrase for that kind of pain.

“She has finally rested.”
“Now she is at peace.”
“She was a great woman.”

I nodded, but inside I felt something thick, heavy, as if my chest had been filled with wet cement.

My son Daniel arrived late. His tie crooked. His eyes red. His beard untrimmed. When he hugged me, he was trembling.

“Sorry, Dad… sorry for not getting here earlier.”

I hugged him tightly. I did not have the strength to reproach him for anything.