Page 59 of Deceptive Vows

I stare at her for a moment thinking how true that is of my entire life. War has always been on the horizon for me, and I’ve always had to suffer in some way for being caught between disagreements. My youth has made me helpless, and I’m still at the point where I have no power. Things have been like that for so long I can’t remember what it’s like to be normal.

“Yes… that’s what happened to me,” I answer.

She nods. “That’s what I thought.”

“I’m so sorry for what my father did.” I feel like a hypocrite saying that to her after she’s been so reasonable. At the same time, someone needs to say sorry for what Raul did, and I am sorry. On behalf of myself. I do wonder what exactly happened. I haven’t been given complete details and dare not ask.

It would be so inappropriate, although I am curious to find out.

“I accept that, and thanks. Eat before the food gets cold.” She offers me a kind smile I appreciate, and we both eat.

She talks about the hospital a little more, and I listen, finally getting absorbed in something that interests me. I even find myself wondering about the possibility of working there.

It feels outlandish because I know I can’t think of such things now or even plan to do anything that will place me in these people’s lives. Or my dreams.

Dreams for me are something which will have to either wait or stay in my head.

All I can focus on now is getting myself out of this situation.

Whenever that may be.

There’s nothing I can do right now or in the next week or the next month. But I can keep my eyes open.

Before I know it, the seamstress is here, and Sophia takes me into the hall to where a hundred beautiful dresses await me.

The designer’s name—Maria Artois—is someone I recognize from TV. I heard some celebrity wearing her dress for their wedding on one of those reality shows Adriana used to watch.

I can’t believe I have a hundred dresses to choose from all made by her.

Her seamstress looks to be around the same age as Sophia, with a similar style, and is a nice, well-mannered lady. Not like the one in Mexico who loathed the sight of me because I was the help. She couldn’t stand the fact I was putting on such a fine dress and even told me nice things weren’t made for people like me.

This seamstress told me the dresses were made for me.

It’s nightfall by the time I get through the last batch of dresses, and I almost yield to the enticement of believing this is really my life and I’m the doting bride.

The temptation intensifies when I spot the perfect dress.

The dress I would choose if this were truly the wedding of my dreams.

It’s a timeless ballgown plucked from a fairytale with swirling beaded patterns on the sleeveless lace bodice that complements the plunging, scalloped neckline.

Cascading ruffles trimmed with sequins run down the endless length of the flowing skirt, which seems to float over the floor. Saying it’s beautiful doesn’t feel like it’s enough of a word to describe it.

“You need to try that on now,” the seamstress says with a firm nod.

When I try it on, I hate that I love it. I shouldn’t love anything about this day, this moment, this feeling.

It’s the first time I don’t feel like I’m wearing someone else’s skin or am in another person’s mind. I feel like me, like this is me, and I realize itisme.

I might be pretending to be someone I’m not, but that doesn’t mean this isn’t me.

Sophia walks up to me, lifts my hair away from my face, and nods.

“This is the dress, my dear. I think you look truly amazing,” she says with a smile.

“Thank you.”

“I think she looks truly amazing, too,” comes a prevailing male voice from the door. a voice I would recognize anywhere, asleep or awake.