Two weeks later, her father called—his voice shaking with emotion. “Son,” he said, “I need to talk to you.”
I just sat there, staring at my phone. Mr. Sandoval was a quiet man—respectful, reserved. We weren’t close, but he’d always been decent. Now he was crying and calling me son?
“Of course, sir,” I replied, my voice unsteady. “What’s going on?”
“Can you come over?” he asked, barely holding it together. “It’s about Mariela.”
Fifteen minutes later, I was at their front door—the same one I’d once approached nervously, holding that little velvet box. I still remembered the pride I felt offering her that ring. It wasn’t much—just a simple solitaire—but it had cost me months of overtime.
When Mr. Sandoval opened the door, he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His face was worn, his eyes red and tired.
“Come in, Adrian,” he said quietly.
We sat in the living room. Mariela’s mother was there too, quietly crying on the couch. The air felt thick with heartbreak.
“I don’t know how to say this,” he began. “Mariela… she left.”
“Left?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
“She ran off with someone else,” he said. “A man twice her age. He’s rich. Promised her the kind of life we never could.”
The words hit like a punch to the chest. I sat there, stunned, a mix of shame, hurt, and disbelief washing over me.
Mr. Sandoval wiped his face. “I didn’t call to blame you. I called to say I’m sorry. For how she treated you. For how we may have made you feel.”
I didn’t know how to respond. I had always sensed they hoped Mariela would marry someone with more stability, more money.
“We were wrong,” he said. “We taught her to value the wrong things—status, wealth. And now we’re watching it all fall apart. But you? You loved her. That should have mattered more than anything else.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I tried my best,” I whispered.
“I know you did,” he said. “And I’m proud of you.”
We sat in silence after that. But in some strange way, their pain softened mine. I wasn’t the one who failed. I wasn’t the villain in this story.
