Thirty, forty years… and still, that man looked at me as if I were the most important woman in the world.
Manuel leaned over and gave me a soft kiss on the forehead.
Then, very carefully, he began to undo the buttons of my dress.
It was a gesture full of respect, almost solemn.
But just as he opened the dress and the fabric fell lightly over my shoulders…
Manuel remained motionless.
His hands stopped in mid-air.
His breathing changed.
— Maria… — he murmured.
There was something different in his voice.
It wasn’t surprise.
It was pain.
I lowered my gaze.
I knew what he was seeing.
On my chest, near my left shoulder, there was a long scar.
And it wasn’t the only one.
There were other smaller, paler scars extending toward my side.
Scars from an operation that had almost cost me my life years ago.
I never liked talking about them.
Manuel slowly raised his hand and touched one of the marks with extreme care, as if he were afraid of hurting me.
“What happened?” he asked in a low voice.
For a moment, I hesitated.
Many years had passed… but some stories still hurt.
I took a deep breath.
— Eight years ago… I was diagnosed with breast cancer.
Manuel remained completely still.