It was one of those fun events at work where you go to a cheap restaurant to socialize with people you couldn’t care less about. As my mind drifted away between conversations, someone asked me about my wedding dress. I said, “It was purple.” Their stares and raised eyebrows were directed at me.
The truth is it was just a purple shirt with black leggings, as I couldn’t fit into anything else at 8 months pregnant. My wedding had been at the notary public a few months after I had told the father of the child I was pregnant with his baby over a Skype call. He was always traveling for work, and we’d hook up when he was in town every now and then. Eventually, the incredulous man had given up his resistance after my dad put his foot down.
At the wedding, we sat next to each other with my parents as witnesses, and we vowed to stick together and some other nonsense. The reception wasn’t much better. It was a sad crowd of old aunts, cousins, and relatives I had hardly seen. No friends. My mom had made it clear this wasn’t a party for me. It was a save face, a charade for the virulent tongues out there.
We stuck together for five years. Just enough to keep the comments at bay. I raised the child alone while he kept traveling and hooking up with random girls in every town. No emotional support from anyone, not from him, not from my mom. The child is now growing as the product of divorce, of an absent father, of a loveless marriage. But who cares? What counts is that we were married.
I snapped out of my thoughts. The stares continued. And I said, “I was joking. My wedding dress was white with a beautiful boat neck bodice…” and I kept going until their smiles were wide.
MALDITAS PALABRAS POÉTICAS 