if I had to.

The ceremony began under a clear afternoon sky.

White flowers moved gently in the breeze.

Diego looked impossibly calm at the altar, but I could see the feeling in his eyes when I reached him.

Relief.

Love.

Certainty.

For the first time in a very long time, I felt peaceful.

Then, halfway through our vows, I heard shouting near the back of the garden.

Valentina.

She came in fast, six months pregnant, one hand bracing her stomach, her face twisted with rage.

Behind her, Martín followed a few seconds later looking pale and panicked.

“You’re selfish!” she screamed at me.

“You knew I loved him! You married him just to get revenge on me!”

The guests went dead silent.

A glass tipped somewhere near the chairs and shattered.

Diego stepped in front of me immediately, calm and solid, but Valentina barely looked at him.

Her eyes were locked on me, blazing with the same old accusation she had worn since childhood whenever I ended up with something she felt entitled to.

That was the moment I understood the ugliest part of her.

She did not want Diego because she loved him.

She wanted him because she could not stand me being chosen.

She took another step and lifted her chin, ready to perform her version of suffering.

I untied the ribbon around my bouquet.

Her expression changed at once.

I pulled out the folded printouts and held them in one hand.

In the other, I raised my phone.

“Say one more lie,” I told her, my voice steady enough to surprise even me, “and I’ll let every person here hear what you said when you thought no one important was listening.”

For one suspended second, nobody moved.

Then my mother, who had somehow shown up at the edge of the ceremony without my noticing, whispered, “What is she talking about?”

Valentina went pale.

“Don’t,” she said.

It was the first honest thing I had heard from her in months.

I pressed play.

Her own voice filled the garden.

Slurred, amused, vicious.

Guests stared as her laughter crackled through the speaker.

They heard her mock Martín.

They heard her confess that she only went after him because Diego wanted me.

They heard her say she couldn’t stand watching me be chosen.

They heard her describe our parents as easy to manipulate if she cried at the right time.

By the second recording, my mother was white as paper.

By the third, my father looked as if someone had struck him across the face.

Martín stared at the ground.

Diego didn’t move.

He just stood beside me, letting the truth do what truth does when it finally enters a room that has been arranged around a lie.

Valentina lunged toward me and hissed, “You ruined everything.”

I lowered the phone.

“No,” I said.

“You did.

You just never expected anyone to stop protecting you.”

Then I turned to Martín.

He looked smaller than I had ever seen him.

Not tragic.

Not conflicted.

Just weak.

He opened his mouth like he wanted to explain himself.

Maybe he was about to say he made a mistake.

Maybe he wanted to blame Valentina.

Maybe he still thought there was a version of events that made him look less pathetic.

I didn’t