She snatched the microphone from the DJ. “I’m expecting Fernando’s child,” she said. And she smiled. She smiled at me.
My mom dropped her wine glass. The glass shattered against the marble. My dad gripped the table as if the floor were moving.
I didn't move. I didn't scream, I didn't cry. Because at the back table there was a man in a gray suit whom Jimena didn't know. And I had been waiting for this exact moment for four months.
I am thirty-eight years old. I was a soldier, now retired, and there are some things you never forget: the main one is that you don't face anything without having all the bullets.
I organized that party myself. I chose the venue, the mariachi band, the three-tiered cake. I even had the napkins embroidered with our initials. Ten years with Fernando. Ten. That morning I ironed his favorite blue shirt myself.
Jimena is my younger sister. The one I carried as a baby, the one I bailed out of debts even my parents didn't know about. She arrived at the party in a red dress, hugged me tightly, and whispered in my ear, "I love you so much, sister."
It smelled like Fernando's perfume.
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