“This is for your wedding, Maisie,” he said to me. “I might not own a large house or any property, but I never want you to be ash@med 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 Tristan 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.
Tristan acted as though he accepted our modest celebration, but three days before the wedding, he arrived alongside his parents. His mother, Mara, surveyed our living room as if she feared something might stain her clothes.
“My son cannot be married inside a community hall,” she declared. “Business owners, government officials, and influential clients are going to attend.”
Embarrassed, my father offered to sell his pickup truck and every piece of gardening equipment he owned so we could pay for a hotel. I refused. I would sooner have canceled the ceremony than take away the tools he depended on to make his living. Tristan later apologized and promised that he would still show up. I decided to trust him.
On our wedding day, he showed up forty minutes late accompanied by his parents and several family members. He did not look concerned.
He had arrived intending to.rass us.
After declaring that the wedding was off, he pointed his finger directly toward my father.