Friends from church, a couple of longtime neighbors, Alberto’s business partner and his wife… everyone toasted to me. They said kind things. They remembered how I never missed a school recital, how I always opened my home at Christmas, how I kept the family united even when it wasn’t easy.
I smiled.
I thanked them.
I listened.
After the appetizers, Alberto stood up and tapped his glass with a spoon.
“I want to say something,” he announced, raising his voice enough for nearby tables to turn and look.
I felt a slight knot in my stomach.
“Carmen,” he said, “you’ve been a great companion. Truly. But I can’t keep living like this. I’m leaving.”
Silence fell like a slab of stone.
The kind of silence where you can even hear the ice shifting inside the glasses.
Alberto didn’t stop. He turned his head toward the bar. I followed his gaze.
There she was.
A woman in her early thirties, wearing a fitted cream blazer, straight glossy hair, cellphone in hand—as if ready to document the moment.
“I’m in love with someone else,” he continued. “Someone who makes me feel young again.”
Someone stifled a gasp.
A friend murmured my name like a prayer.
And then I heard it.
Applause.