“Tomorrow I will marry Laura, the woman who waited for me patiently for three years. Everything is ready; both our families have prepared the wedding with care. But deep in my heart, there remains an indelible shadow: the memory of Mariana, my first wife, who died in a car accident four years ago.”

That day is burned into my memory like a scar. Mariana had left early for the market to prepare the meal for my father’s death anniversary.

And then came the call that shattered my world:

“Your wife was in an accident… We did everything we could, but she didn’t survive.”

When I arrived, her body was lifeless, yet her face still carried the tender smile I knew so well.

I felt as though the ground had given way beneath me. For an entire year, I lived like a ghost.

The house we had built with so much love became a cold and empty shell. Every time I opened the closet and smelled her fabric softener, I broke down.

Friends and family urged me to rebuild my life, but I refused. I was convinced I didn’t deserve love anymore, that I could never give my heart again.

Until Laura appeared.
She was a new colleague, five years younger. She wasn’t pushy or invasive.

Her quiet affection gradually showed me my heart could still feel warmth. When I thought of Mariana, she would simply sit beside me and hand me a cup of tea.

When noises from the street triggered memories of that day, she would hold my hand until I calmed down.

For three years, she never asked me to forget. She just waited, patiently, until I was ready to open my heart again.

That’s why I decided to marry her.

But before taking that step, I felt compelled to visit Mariana’s grave, clean it, and light incense. I wanted to believe that, wherever she was, she would wish for my happiness too.

That evening, a light drizzle fell. The cemetery was empty, the silence broken only by the wind through the eucalyptus trees. I carried white flowers, a cloth, and candles. With trembling hands, I placed chrysanthemums on the grave and whispered:

“Mariana, tomorrow I’ll marry another woman. I know that if you were alive, you would want me to find someone by my side. I’ll never forget you, but I need to move forward… I can’t keep Laura waiting.”

A tear slid down my face unnoticed. As I wiped the tombstone, I heard faint footsteps behind me.

I turned, eyes still wet.

Before me stood a slender woman in her thirties, wearing a light beige coat. Her hair swayed in the wind, her eyes filled with sadness.

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to scare you,” she said, her voice trembling.

I nodded, wiping my tears.

“It’s all right… Are you here visiting someone?”

She hesitated, glanced at a nearby grave, and replied softly:

“I came to see my sister. She d:ied in a car accident… four years ago.”

My heart stopped. I looked at the tombstone:

Gabriela Ramírez – 1992–2019.

The very same date as Mariana’s d:eath.

“Your sister… d:ied the same day as my wife.”

Her eyes widened in shock.

“Your wife also d:ied that day?”

I nodded, then shared my story.

Tears welled in her eyes as she laid a bouquet of lilies on her sister’s grave.

“That day, Gabriela was traveling with a friend… I never imagined it would be her last journey,” she whispered, crying.

The silence of the cemetery wrapped around us. Somehow, our griefs intertwined.

When we parted, she said,

“My name is Isabel.”

“I’m Daniel,” I answered.

We spoke at length about those we had lost. She told me about Gabriela—joyful, full of hope, passionate about music. I spoke of Mariana—her kindness, her generosity. There was sorrow in our eyes, but also tenderness as we recalled their lives.

The next day, my wedding with Laura took place, surrounded by family and friends. She shone in white, radiant, while everyone congratulated us. Yet deep inside, the image of Isabel in that cemetery lingered.

Fate brought us together again.

I discovered she worked at a partner company. During a meeting, she whispered my name, barely audible:

“Daniel…”

We later shared coffee. Isabel confided:

“Since Gabriela d:ied, I’ve buried myself in work. But there are nights I cry without reason. That day at the cemetery, I felt I wasn’t alone in my grief.”

Listening to her, I realized there was an invisible bond between us: shared loss.
But I also knew it was dangerous. I was married. I couldn’t give in.

We met several times. Our conversations grew longer, deeper. I told her things I hadn’t shared with Laura. And guilt consumed me.

One night, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I confessed everything to my wife.

I told her about Isabel, the cemetery, our conversations.

Laura was silent for a long time. I braced for anger. But instead, she said:

“Daniel, I waited for you for three years. I’m not afraid of Isabel. Because I know love isn’t pity or coincidence—it’s a choice. I just want you to have the courage to choose what you truly want. If you’re happier with her, I’ll let you go.”

Her words pierced my chest like a kn:ife.

In that moment, I understood: true love isn’t about sharing wounds, but about sacrifice, trust, and faith.

From then on, I kept my contact with Isabel strictly professional. I chose Laura—because the past must remain in the past, and the woman who truly helped me rebuild was always beside me.

Sometimes, in quiet moments, I remember Isabel’s sad eyes and her question:

“Are you with someone who only reminds you of your wounds, or with someone who helps you heal them?”

And I realized that meeting in the cemetery wasn’t meant to spark a new love, but to remind me I don’t need to carry grief alone.

I am with Laura. And with her, I must learn to live fully.

Since then, my life has truly changed.

Not because of a love triangle, but because I learned to treasure the present, release the past, and move forward.