PART 1
My parents walked into my wedding dressed completely in black, as if instead of getting married, I was being buried.
I was sitting at the head table, in my white dress, with my bouquet of bougainvilleas and Diego’s hand squeezing mine under the tablecloth, when all 180 guests turned at the same time toward the entrance of the hall. First I saw my mother, Teresa, in a long black dress, sunglasses on her head, and a funeral face. Then my father, Roberto, in a black suit and black tie. And behind them, my sister Belén, also in black, walking as if she had arrived to win a war.
My name is Valeria Montes, I’m 29 years old, and that day I understood that there are families who cannot stand seeing you happy if your happiness no longer benefits them.
In my house there were always 2 daughters, but only 1 princess. Belén was the light. I was the switch. She danced, sang, appeared in photos, won neighborhood beauty contests, and my mother bragged about every single thing as if it were a miracle. I got good grades, worked from the age of 17 at a veterinary clinic, cooked when my mother was busy with Belén, and took care of my father when his back hurt. But none of that ever made it onto the refrigerator.
The fridge was full of Belén’s photos: crowns, dresses, selfies with my mother. Once, I put up my high school honor certificate. The next day, I found it folded inside a drawer.
“Don’t be so sensitive, Valeria,” my mother told me. “Your sister needs more support. You’re stronger.”
Being “strong” in my family meant paying, enduring, and asking for nothing.
At 27, my parents called me with voices full of tragedy. The family house in Morelia was falling apart. The roof was leaking, the pipes were rotten, and a wall in the patio had split open because of the damp. Belén didn’t come to the meeting.
She sent a message:
“I’m super busy, you guys handle it.”
