The ceremony had just finished, and relatives from both families showered us with their blessings.
I—Alejandro—was still dizzy from the tequila and the joy of my marriage. The woman I had just wed, Marisol, was gentle and humble; everyone told me I was fortunate to have found her.
Our wedding night should have been the most cherished and tender time of our lives. Yet Marisol acted unusually. From the instant we entered the room, she sat quietly on the bed’s edge, her fingers entwined and shaking. I assumed it was simply shyness, so I tried joking softly to ease her. But the nearer I came, the more she shrank away, firmly refusing to allow me close.
As minutes dragged by, my patience began thinning. An uneasy irritation, even anger, crept inside me. A troubling thought echoed in my head:
“Is Marisol concealing something from me?”
The night wore on, with only the weak golden glow of the lamp filling the room. She remained curled beneath the blanket, trembling. I drew closer, rested my palm on her shoulder, and spoke gently,
“What’s wrong? We’re husband and wife now. Can’t you trust me?”
Marisol bit her lip, her eyes glistening with tears. She said nothing, just pulled the blanket tighter. That silence made my heartbeat thunder.
In a surge of anger blended with curiosity, I lifted the blanket. And the sight that met me froze my blood and shattered my heart.
Across Marisol’s body lay old scars, jagged and thin, carved across her back, arms, and legs. I stood stunned, my chest seized as if gripped by iron hands. My gaze shifted to her face: her eyes squeezed shut, tears streaming as if awaiting harsh judgment.
I quickly dropped the blanket and fell to my knees before her, my voice breaking:
“Marisol… forgive me! I was wrong… Please forgive me!”
She opened her eyes, startled. Perhaps she never expected such a response. With shaking fingers, I clasped her hands and whispered,
“What are these scars? What happened to you? Why didn’t you ever confide in me?”
After a long pause, Marisol haltingly shared her story through sobs. Before she met me, her childhood had been marked by cruelty. Her parents passed when she was young, and she was left with distant relatives. But instead of kindness, she was seen as a burden, forced into endless chores, brutally mistreated. Each scar upon her skin was a trace of that grim history.
Growing older, Marisol fought to escape that torment and live normally. Yet the memories etched themselves deep, leaving fear, humiliation, and doubt that anyone could truly accept her. When she agreed to marry me, she felt joy, but also dread. That wedding night, shadows of her past resurfaced, holding her back.
Listening, I wrapped her in my arms with all my strength. My tears slid down her shoulder. I murmured,
“That past doesn’t define who you are today. To me, you’re the most precious woman alive. Your scars don’t diminish your beauty; they make me love and honor you even more.”
Marisol sobbed in my embrace, gripping my shirt as though releasing the burden she’d long carried. That wedding night, instead of physical passion like others, became a night of truth and profound connection.
From then on, I cherished Marisol even deeper. I realized that real love is not about perfection, but about embracing and protecting another’s wounds. Her past mattered nothing; all I wanted was a tomorrow where those scars were only distant shadows.
Years later, whenever I recalled that night, Marisol still flushed red. I only smiled, because I knew that when I lifted that blanket, I uncovered not just her hidden truth, but also the meaning of genuine love.
Our wedding night—the dawn of shared life—was remembered not for wine or roses, but for shared tears and a vow unbroken: no matter how heavy the past, the future would always find our hands clasped until the very end.
