You shake your head automatically.
“No, no, I can’t,” you whisper. “This is your moment.”
Lara’s fingers tighten around yours.
“You helped make the man I love,” she says. “You are part of this moment.”
At the altar, Marco is crying now.
Not with embarrassment. Not with discomfort. Not the restrained tears of a man trying to remain formal in a suit. He is crying like the boy you raised, openly and helplessly, with gratitude too big for pride. He steps forward then, ignoring all ceremony, all timing, all polished expectations, and walks down the aisle toward you both.
When he reaches you, he cannot speak at first.
He simply bends and wraps his arms around you.
Your face presses against his shoulder. For one second, through the crisp jacket and the cologne and the grown-man frame he has built around himself, you can still feel the child who used to fit in the crook of your arm while you counted your market earnings at night. The child who asked for one more story. The child who would say, even at ten, “Don’t worry, Mama, when I grow up I’m going to take care of you.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your hair. “I’m so sorry.”
You pull back enough to look at him.
“What for, mijo?”
“For not seeing that you were worried. For not asking if you had what you needed. For making you walk in here feeling alone.”
