PART 1
“There will be no wedding today. I showed up only so all of you could witness that I would never marry a gardener’s daughter.”
Julian delivered those words through the microphone before one hundred and twenty guests, with a smirk I am still embarrassed to remember. I remained beside the temporary altar inside the Oakridge community center, wearing my white bridal gown, while my father, Arthur, appeared to shrink inside the spotless shirt he had purchased in installments solely so he could proudly walk me down the aisle.
My mother passed away when I was nine years old. From that moment forward, my father became my whole world. He maintained gardens in residential communities throughout Silver City, hauled heavy bags of soil, and drove an aging pickup truck that rattled whenever the engine started. He returned home with hands worn from years of hard work and a back that bent further with every passing year, yet he never once complained.
One evening, when I turned twenty-four, he pulled an old, rusty coffee can from underneath his bed. Inside were twenty, fifty, and one-hundred-dollar bills, every single one carefully folded.
“This is for your wedding, Clara,” he said to me. “I might not own a large house or any property, but I never want you to be ashamed of your father.”
I wept when I discovered that he had spent over twelve years putting aside tips, loose change, and a portion of every paycheck. When Julian proposed, my father spent every peso from those savings to rent the community center, cover the food, and purchase flowers. Women from the neighborhood stitched tablecloths, local boys strung up the lights, and my aunt prepared mole for everybody.
Julian acted as though he accepted our modest celebration, but three days before the wedding, he arrived alongside his parents. His mother, Victoria, surveyed our living room as if she feared something might stain her clothes.
