Her friends stopped defending her. My family stopped inviting her. And Ricardo Salvatierra, as I later found out, didn’t give her the promotion either. At the company, they began to see her as someone capable of anything out of convenience.
A year later, Diego signed the divorce papers.
The last time Camila talked about that wedding, we were putting clothes away. She found her lilac dress in a box and looked at it with sadness.
“Is this the tortilla-chip dress?” she asked.
It hurt to hear her, but I took a deep breath.
“No, my love. That is the dress from the day your uncle understood that loving someone does not mean allowing them to hurt others.”
Camila thought for a moment, then folded the dress carefully.
“Then it’s not so ugly anymore,” she said.
Sometimes justice does not arrive with shouting or revenge.
Sometimes it arrives in the form of a blurry photo, a note written in pencil, and a little girl who, without knowing it, opened the eyes of an entire family.
