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The ceremony had ended, and both families showered us with blessings. I—Alejandro—was dizzy with tequila and joy. My bride, Marisol, was gentle and humble; everyone said I was lucky.
But on our wedding night, she seemed strangely distant. Sitting rigid on the bed’s edge, trembling, she shrank away each time I approached. Irritation mingled with worry. “Is she hiding something?” I wondered.
When I lifted the blanket in frustration, my heart froze—her body was covered with old scars. Stunned, I knelt before her. “Marisol, forgive me… what happened to you?”
Through sobs, she revealed a childhood of abuse after losing her parents—each scar a cruel reminder. She feared no one could accept her.
I embraced her, whispering, “Your past doesn’t define you. Your scars make me love you more.”
That night wasn’t about passion but truth and connection. I learned real love isn’t perfection—it’s protecting each other’s wounds. Years later, I still cherish that moment when love overcame fear.
