So when Mateo arrives three months ago with a white cane and dark glasses, everyone decides the story for you before you can breathe.
A blind man, polite and quiet, says he wants to open a legal consultancy in the provincial capital.
He speaks with calm certainty, like a person who has already survived the worst and refused to become bitter.
Your father sees him as a solution, the way some men see daughters: a problem to be solved neatly.
You tell yourself you’re choosing him for dignity.
But deep down you know the truth that tastes like shame.
You’re choosing him because if he is truly blind, then your face becomes irrelevant.
And irrelevant is the closest you’ve ever gotten to safe.
The wedding day arrives with the soft violence of tradition.
The church smells like candles and polished wood, like someone tried to sanitize humanity.
You hear the murmurs before you see the altar, and each one lands on your shoulders as if you’re wearing stone.
“Poor guy,” they say again, and you want to turn around and run.
When Mateo takes your arm, his touch is careful, not hesitant.
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