Page 91 of We Shouldn’t Do This Again

“That happens a lot—you should know that by now.”

Miriam looks at me in the mirror, and her expression softens even more.

“You know,” she says, “whatever happens with Barbara, there’s one thing you’ve already done right.”

“What’s that?”

“Not closing yourself off completely. Continuing to believe in love, even with fear and doubts. That’s already a huge step, sweetheart.”

I stand still for a moment, taking in her words. Maybe she’s right. Maybe loving isn’t about not being afraid, but about accepting that fear can’t decide for you, that you can walk alongside it without letting it paralyze you.

I hug her then. Tightly. With the need of someone who has found, in the midst of emotional chaos, a safe place to rest for a few minutes. She hugs me back like a mother, like a friend, like that family member who arrives late but who, once they arrive, stays.

“And now dry those tears, because your father is going to cry enough when he sees me walk in that you don’t need to cry too.”

I step back, laughing, feeling lighter now.

“I saw him this morning, and he was a bundle of nerves. I caught him practicing in front of the mirror how to say his vows without bursting into tears like a child.”

Miriam puts a hand to her chest, visibly moved.

“Oh, your father… he really is the man of my life. I don’t know what I did to deserve him.”

“I know. And he knows it too.”

She looks at me with immense tenderness, the kind that wraps around you warmly.

“And not a day goes by that I don’t remind myself how lucky I am to have him. To have you too, Lidia. You’re part of this, of our story.”

That breaks me all over again, but this time in a beautiful, sweet, hopeful way. I hug her again. Slower this time, more consciously. Because maybe that’s what all this is about: understanding that love isn’t always perfect, but it can be a refuge, it can be a home, even if it’s rebuilt with pieces that were once broken.

Forgiving isn’t forgetting. Or justifying. Or pretending nothing hurt. Forgiving is deciding that pain won’t have the last word. That fear won’t write the ending of the story. That, even though loving can sometimes make you dizzy and take your breath away, it’s still the only place worth returning to again and again.

And I, for the first time in a long time, feel that maybe I still have time to go home. To go back to her. To go back to us once more.

EPILOGUE

A NEW “US”

Lidia

The night in Ukulhas seems made of a different substance than the rest of the world. I don’t know if it’s the constant murmur of the sea crashing against the shore, or the white sand reflecting the moonlight until it turns into stardust, or perhaps the warm air, heavy with salt and the scent of flowers. I only know that there is something about this island that transforms emotions into something greater, deeper, more real. And tonight, after my father and Miriam’s wedding, I feel as though my heart is too full to hold everything inside my chest without it overflowing.

Everything was wonderful. From early in the afternoon, when the sun began to set, the entire resort transformed into a fairytale setting: the paths were lit by lanterns dancing to the rhythm of the breeze, and the centerpieces gave off that delightful floral scent Miriam and I spent days choosing. The guests arrived walking barefoot across the sand, their shoes dangling from their hands and smiles lighting up their faces.

My father didn’t stop smiling for a single moment, and after how hard things had been with Mom, seeing him like that broke my heart in the best way. I still have etched in my memory the exact moment Miriam appeared, walking toward him down the aisle leading to the altar facing the sea. How the sun was setting then, painting the sky in shades of orange and deep mauve. How he began to cry even before she reached his side. Miriam was radiant in her flowing dress… everything was simply perfect.

A few hours have already passed since that moment when she dried his tears, when they said the famous “I do,” and we all applauded. I’ve smiled, danced, and hugged people I hadn’t seen in years. I’ve cried listening to Miriam and my father’s toasts, feeling the way they promised each other a life full of companionship and love. While they spoke of a new life, of choosing the person you love every day, I couldn’t stop thinking about someone else… and about another moment: that afternoon when Barbara and I got married in Cádiz, when we promised each other the same thing they did, believing that love would be enough to save everything.

I remember how her hands trembled as she slipped the ring onto my finger; I remember the emotion vibrating in her voice when she told me I was her home. And I also remember, very clearly, how much it hurt to discover that love isn’t always enough when you don’t know how to take care of what you have. That wound is still there, perhaps less raw, but still present. And that’s why, throughout the entire wedding, I haven’t stopped looking at her. Because yes, Barbara didn’t break her promise to live this sweet moment despite everything. She enjoyed the wedding to the fullest.

I’ve seen her at times among the crowd, chatting with some guests, helping Miriam with a last-minute detail, smiling with that sad restraint I now recognize in her. She’s wearing a burgundy dress that highlights the golden tone of her skin, and her hair is pulled back in a loose style, letting a few strands escape to be blown by the wind across her cheeks. She’s beautiful. So beautiful that I find it hard to breathe every time I watch her move, as if the air itself were growing thick.

We haven’t gotten close. We haven’t even spoken to each other. The fear is still there. These days of silence after that conversation at the restaurant have left us suspended in a strange place, one where we both know we love each other, but neither of us is sure about taking the final step.

I try to convince myself that it’s okay this way, that maybe it’s better to let this journey be just that: a beautiful and painful interlude, a memory to return to when real life weighs too heavily. But that’s a lie. Because as I watch my father kiss Miriam, as people applaud and happiness shines in their eyes, the only thing I can think is that I don’t want to settle for memories. I want to feel my heart bursting in my chest. Even if it scares me. Even if it hurts. Even if it means taking a risk again, with everything that entails.

The night unfolds amid music, wine, and laughter rising above the murmur of the sea. My father dances with Miriam as if he were twenty years younger; she laughs so hard she ends up barefoot on the sand. I watch it all from the table and think that love, when it’s truly good, has something magical about it that makes you smile nonstop.