The Mother Who Arrived Late — Continued

Iker took a step toward the woman.

It wasn't a hug.

It wasn't forgiveness.

It wasn't even trust.

It was just a step.

But with that step, Andrea understood that something was slipping through her fingers.

"Iker," she said, her voice trembling, "don't do this here."

He didn't look at her.

He kept looking at that tired woman, her eyes heavy with years, her hands clutching a small, old purse. She didn't seem like an intruder. She didn't seem like someone who had come to make a scene.

She seemed like someone who had reached the end of a long road and was still afraid of being thrown out before she could speak.

"What's your name?" Iker asked.

The woman's lips trembled.

"Maite."

Maite.

The name struck him in the chest.

He had heard it only a few times in his life.

Never with affection.

Her father said “Maite” as if he were closing a door.

Maite left.

Maite didn't want any responsibilities.

Maite chose another life.

Maite doesn't deserve your continued questions.

But the woman standing before him didn't seem like someone who had chosen an easy life.

She seemed like someone whose life had been taken from her.

“How long have you known, Andrea?” Iker asked.

Maite lowered her gaze.

“Three months.”

Andrea let out a choked sob.

“I was afraid.”

Iker turned to her.

“Of my mother?”

Andrea opened her mouth, but couldn't find a single answer that didn't sound awful.

The guests remained motionless on the steps. Some still held petals in their hands. Others had lowered their phones, as if suddenly ashamed of having recorded. The bells no longer rang joyfully. They sounded distant, almost foreign.

Then a deep voice cut through the crowd.

"Iker, that's enough. Come in with me. This needs to be discussed in private."

It was his father, Eduardo.

He was impeccably dressed in a dark suit, his expression serious but not surprised.

That's what Iker saw.

He didn't see confusion.

He didn't see astonishment.

He saw fear.

An old fear.

"You know her," Iker said.

Eduardo clenched his jaw.

"This isn't the time."

"I asked you if you know her."

His father didn't answer.

Maite spoke softly:

"She knows me."

The murmur of the guests rose like a wave.

Iker felt his entire childhood shift beneath his feet.

For years he had imagined his mother as a shadow that deliberately retreated. Now he had her in front of him, trembling, with evidence on a phone and tears that seemed too tired to fake.

Andrea tried to approach him.

"Iker, I just wanted you to be happy."

He looked at her.

"You hid me from my mother the day before we married."

"I thought showing up now would hurt you."

"No. What hurt me was discovering that you all made decisions for me."

Andrea went pale.

Iker turned to his best friend, Asier.

"Tell them there won't be a celebration."

Asier blinked.

"Iker…"

"Please."

Asier looked at Maite, then at Andrea, then at Iker's father.

"Okay. I'll take care of it."

Andrea took a step toward him.

"We're already married."

Iker felt the ring on his finger as if it suddenly weighed down with a lifetime.

"Then I'll talk to a lawyer tomorrow."

Andrea put a hand to her chest.

"Are you going to destroy everything for a woman who just appeared?"

Iker looked at Maite.

Then he looked back at Andrea.

"No. I'm going to stop building my life on a lie."

The small room next to the sacristy smelled of old wood, wax, and damp. Only a few people entered: Iker, Maite, Andrea, Eduardo, Asier, and Aunt Begoña, the younger sister of Iker's paternal grandmother.

Begoña was crying before she sat down.

Iker looked at her.

"You knew it too."

She covered her mouth with a handkerchief.

"Not everything."

"That's not an answer."

Begoña closed her eyes.

"I knew Maite didn't leave the way they told you."

Eduardo turned to her.

"Begoña, be careful."

The woman raised her head.

"I took care of myself for twenty-five years. And look what we did with that care."

Maite placed her purse on the table.

Her hands were trembling so much that Iker almost helped her. He stopped. He didn't know if he had the right. He didn't know how to help a mother when you've just discovered that perhaps you never stopped being one.

She opened the purse.

First, she took out letters.

Many.

Tied with a worn blue ribbon.

Some yellowed.

Others still sealed.

Several had return stamps.

"Addressee unknown."

"Refused."

"Returned to sender."

They all bore his name.

Iker Arrieta.