Arrival at the Hacienda
“Everyone called me insane for marrying a 65‑year‑old woman,” I thought as the black SUVs rolled past the wrought‑iron gates.
The night air smelled of jasmine and gasoline; a dozen uniformed guards hovered like statues, their batons glinting under lantern light.
Guests swarmed the courtyard, their tuxedos and silk dresses rustling louder than the distant mariachi.
I slipped through the throng, feeling the eyes of the town burn into my back.
When Celia appeared, her silk shawl fell back just enough to reveal a dark, round birthmark on her left shoulder.
It was uneven, almost like a bruised bruise, and it sat exactly where my mother’s own mark lived—on the collarbone, a secret I’d never spoken of.
