So when he told me he was getting married, and I realized I had nothing else to wear, I tried to be practical.
I walked past store windows and pretended not to stop. I asked two neighbors if they had dresses I might borrow. One was too tight. Another made me feel like I was wrapped in someone else’s life. I even considered not going. For one terrible afternoon, I thought maybe Marco would be less ashamed if I stayed home and claimed I was sick.
But the thought lasted only minutes.
There was no force in this world that could have kept me from my son’s wedding.
So I chose the green dress.
When Marco introduced me to Lara months earlier, I had already prepared myself to feel out of place. She came from a world I recognized immediately as wealthier, calmer, cleaner than mine. Her father owned businesses. Her mother was a doctor. Their house had a dining room larger than my entire apartment. The glasses on their table were thin as flower petals. Their voices never rose.
I remember the first time Lara came to the market to see me.
I almost wished she had not.
I was wearing my apron. My hair was coming loose. My hands smelled like cilantro and onions. I expected politeness. I expected effort. I expected the sort of respect people perform because they know they should.
Instead, she hugged me.
Not carefully. Not with hesitation.
She hugged me as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
‘I’ve heard so much about you, Ms. Teresa,’ she said. ‘Marco says you are the reason he knows how to work for anything that matters.’
