My father’s name is Don Alberto, and this year he turns 60. My mother died of cancer when my sister and I were still in college. Since then, he has spent more than twenty years alone, without dating anyone or remarrying, focusing solely on raising his two daughters.
In Puebla, everyone in the family often gave him advice:
“Alberto, you are still healthy, get married again, being alone is very sad.”
But he just smiled calmly and said:
“When my two daughters are strong, I will think about it.”
Indeed, he kept his promise.
When my sister got married and I got a stable job in Mexico City, my father began to have time for himself.
One day, at the beginning of winter, she called us, her voice as eager as a young man’s:
“I’m thinking of getting married. Her name is Valeria.”
My sister and I were surprised.
The woman was only 30 years old, thirty years younger than my father.
She worked as an accountant in a company near her home in Puebla, she was divorced and had no children.
They met at a yoga class in middle age.
At first, the conversation was light, which gradually turned into mutual understanding.
We were worried, we were afraid that she might be taken advantage of. But after a few meetings, we saw that Valeria was gentle, caring and loyal to him, we were comforted.
The wedding took place on a spring morning, in the courtyard of an old house on the outskirts of Puebla. There were no grand luxuries, just a few simple tables with close relatives and old friends of the father I.
Valeria was wearing a beautiful cream-colored wedding dress, her hair tied back, and her face was as delicate as the morning sun.
My father was nervous, always smiling, acting like a teenager getting married for the first time.
That evening, after everyone had finished cleaning, my brother joked:
“Dad, don’t be so loud, there are children and adults in the house.”
He laughed and held her hand:
“What nonsense you are talking!”
Then he accompanied Valeria to the bride’s room, my parents’ old room. This was the room where he and my mother had lived for decades, where she took her last breath. We advised her to remodel it, but she only changed the curtains.
“I would be more comfortable if it stayed this way,” she said.
About an hour later I suddenly heard something coming from the hallway.
I thought at first it was a cat, but…
A dry cry came out; clear, frightened, full of fear.
I stood up and ran with my sister to the door of my father’s room. From inside, a cry could be heard:
“No!” Please don’t… Don’t do this!
I opened the door.
The scene before my eyes left me speechless.
Valeria was curled up on the floor, her hands covering her head, her whole body shaking. Dad stood in the corner of the room, his face pale, speechless.
On the floor, the bridal sari was in disarray, surrounded by small pieces of paper, like torn pictures.
My sister ran to hug Valeria and comfort her. After a while, she whispered:
“I… I saw… Someone standing on the edge of the room. With white clothes, long hair… She looked at me… She said, “This is not your place…”
I looked at my father. His eyes were restless, scared and hurt all at once.
The silence after that night
All night, Dad sat on the veranda, unable to sleep.
Early in the morning, when everything was still quiet, he picked up the broom and swept the yard, calmly, as if nothing had happened.
Breakfast passed quietly that morning. Valeria sat there with a pale face, not wanting to eat. Dad ate only a few spoonfuls of atole without speaking.
That evening, when I went out on the veranda, I saw her watering the jasmine plant that my mother had planted when she was alive. At that moment, as I looked at her, I felt that something inexplicable had been lost in me.
I sat down and said softly:
“Dad… Valeria is really scared. That room… There must be something different.”
He stopped, his voice trembling:
“It’s not her fault… It’s my fault.
Then he sighed, looking into the distance:
“The day your mother died, I promised that no one would replace her. For the past 20 years, I have kept that room, for fear of forgetting the smell of her hair, the sound of her laughter. When Valeria entered, it was as if I had betrayed the deceased. It was not a ghost or anything… It was just a memory. And memories… No one can erase them.
I sat quietly, listening to the wind from the veranda, my heart sinking. For the first time in my life, I saw my father so charming.
That night, I put my sister to sleep with Valeria in the living room, while I cleaned my parents’ bedroom. I took all the pictures of my mother off the wall, removed them, changed the blankets, and opened the windows to let the air flow in.
The room no longer felt heavy, only the soft scent of jasmine and a faint moonlight remained.
The next morning, I sat with Valeria and talked to her. She was silent for a long time, and then she said calmly:
“I’m not afraid of ghosts. Alone… I feel like I’ve arrived in a place where I don’t belong.
I smiled and said:
“Valeria, no one can replace anyone. But he is gone. You just need to… To live with my father, not to live for others.”
She nodded and smiled slightly.
That afternoon, Dad took Valeria to a clean room. They held hands quietly, saying nothing. Just by looking at them, I knew I had found peace.
Since that day, life has gradually returned to normal.
Valeria learned how to cook my father’s favorite dishes and even put a few pots of orchids on the balcony.
My father still watered the plants in the morning and read the newspaper in the afternoon, but sometimes he would stand quietly in front of my mother’s altar, as if he were telling her a new story.
One day, Valeria told me:
“I’m thinking of moving to the small room next to the kitchen. There’s more light there. About the old room, which Alberto kept as … A place of behavior, for when you need to remember the past.
I just nodded.
Not because I accepted her as my stepmother, but because I understood that sometimes love is not about changing someone, but about knowing when to turn back and when to move forward.
The old house in Puebla is still as quiet as ever: peeling paint, tiled roof covered in moss, wooden doors.
But the difference is that now no one has to live alone in the shadow of the past.
My father once said:
There are pains that should not be forgotten. Learn to live with them, while you learn to breathe in the memories.
And I know that, at the age of 60, my father has finally learned to love again without betraying the past.