“Tomorrow I’m marrying Laura, the woman who waited patiently for me for three years. Everything is ready; both families have carefully planned the wedding. But deep in my heart, there’s still an indelible shadow: the memory of Mariana, my first wife, who died in a car accident four years ago.”

That day remains etched in my memory like a scar. Mariana had left early for the market to prepare the meal for my father’s death anniversary. And then, that phone call that devastated me:  “Your wife had an accident… we did everything we could, but she didn’t survive . “
When I arrived, his body was already lifeless, and his face still held the sweet smile I knew so well. I felt like the whole world was crumbling beneath my feet.

I spent a year living like a ghost. The house we had worked so hard to build became a cold, empty place. Every time I opened the closet and still smelled the fabric softener she used, I collapsed. My friends and family urged me to rebuild my life, but I just shook my head. I believed I was unworthy of anyone and that I would never be able to love again.

Until Laura appeared. She was a new coworker, five years younger than me. She wasn’t pushy or eager to get too close, but her silent tenderness showed me that my heart could still feel warmth. When I remembered Mariana, she would sit next to me and offer me a cup of tea. When the noise from the streets made me relive the tragedy, she would hold my hand until I managed to calm down. For three years, she never asked me to forget the past; she simply waited, with infinite patience, for me to open my heart.

And so I decided to marry her. But before taking that step, I felt I should visit Mariana, clean her grave, and light some incense for her. I wanted to believe that, wherever she was, she would also want to see me happy.

That afternoon, it was drizzling gently. The cemetery was empty, the only sound being the wind through the eucalyptus trees. I had brought white flowers, a cloth, and a bundle of candles. With a trembling hand, I placed the chrysanthemums on the grave and whispered:

“Mariana, I’m getting married to another woman tomorrow. I know that, if you were still alive, you’d also want me to find someone to be with me. I’ll never forget you, but I have to move on… I can’t let Laura wait any longer.”

A tear fell without me realizing it. As I was cleaning the tombstone, I heard very soft footsteps behind me.

I turned around, my eyes still red. In front of me was a thin woman in her thirties, wearing a light brown coat. Her hair was tousled by the wind, and her eyes had a melancholy gleam.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” she said in a trembling voice.

I nodded, wiping away my tears:
“Don’t worry… did you come to visit someone?”

She was silent for a moment, looked at the tombstone next to her, and replied,
“I came to visit my sister. She died in a car accident… four years ago.”

My heart stopped. I read the nearby tombstone:  Gabriela Ramírez – 1992–2019 . The exact same date Mariana passed away.

“Her sister… passed away the same day as my wife.”

She opened her eyes in surprise and looked at me intensely:
“Your wife also died that day?”

I nodded and briefly told her what had happened. Her eyes filled with tears as she placed a bouquet of white lilies on her sister’s grave.

“That day Gabriela was traveling with a friend… I never imagined it would be her last trip,” she said, sobbing.

The silence of the cemetery enveloped us. I felt a strange connection, as if the pain of two strangers had intertwined by chance.

As we said goodbye, she said to me:
“I’m Isabel.”

“My name is Daniel,” I replied.

We stayed for a while longer, talking about those we’d lost. She told me that Gabriela was cheerful, optimistic, and a music lover. I talked about Mariana, about her sweetness, about how she always thought of others. There was pain in our eyes, yes, but also a flash of tenderness as we recalled beautiful memories.

The next day, my wedding to Laura was celebrated surrounded by family and friends. She looked radiant in white, and everyone congratulated us on finding happiness again. But deep inside me, the image of Isabel in the cemetery continued to resonate.

Fate, capricious, brought us together again. I discovered he worked for a company that supplied mine. When he saw us at a meeting, he could barely manage to whisper:
“Daniel…”

We had coffee after work. Isabel confided in me:
“Since Gabriela died, I’ve sought refuge in work. But there are still nights when I cry for no reason. Meeting him that day in the cemetery made me feel like I wasn’t alone in this grief.”

I listened to her and understood that there was an invisible bond between us: that of shared grief. But I also knew that this same bond was dangerous. I had just gotten married; I couldn’t allow myself to fall into emotional turmoil.

Over time, Isabel and I met several more times. Our conversations grew longer, deeper. I shared things with her that I never told Laura. And it tormented me.

Until one night, unable to hide it any longer, I decided to confess everything to my wife. I told her about the meeting in the cemetery, about Isabel, about the conversations that followed.

Laura was silent for a long time. I thought she’d get angry, but she finally said,
“Daniel, I waited for you three years. I’m not afraid of Isabel. Because I know that love isn’t pity or coincidence: it’s a choice. I just want you to have the courage to decide what you really want. If you’ll be happier with her, I’ll know how to let go.”

His words pierced my heart like a dagger. Then I understood that true love isn’t just about sharing wounds, but about sacrifice, trust, and faith.

From that day on, I limited my encounters with Isabel to strictly business-related matters. I chose to stay with Laura because I understood that the past had to be put behind me and that the woman who had truly helped me move forward was always by my side.

Sometimes, in silence, I remember Isabel’s sad eyes and that question she asked me:
“Are you with someone who only reminds you of your wounds, or with someone who helps you heal them?”

And I understood that that meeting in the cemetery wasn’t meant to open a new love story, but rather to remind me that I didn’t have to carry my pain alone. I had Laura, and with her, I had to learn to live fully.

From that day on, my life truly changed. Not because of a love triangle, but because I learned to value the present, let go of the past, and move forward.