Don Tomás, seventy years old, was a wealthy farmer in a small town in Oaxaca.
His first wife, Doña Rosa, had passed away a decade earlier, leaving him with three daughters, all already married.
Despite his age, Don Tomás still longed for a son—someone to carry on his name and continue the family legacy. That dream, unfulfilled for years, weighed heavily on him.
So, he decided to marry again.
His choice was Marisol, a twenty-year-old girl from a poor family in the same town.
Marisol was as radiant as spring itself, but hardship had left its mark on her. Her parents, desperate for money to pay for their youngest son’s medical treatment, agreed to marry her off in exchange for a generous sum.
Though unwilling, Marisol accepted the marriage out of love for her family.
On the night before the wedding, she whispered tearfully to her mother:
“I just hope he treats me kindly… I will do my duty.”
The wedding was simple yet ostentatious—Don Tomás wanted the entire town to see that he was still strong and capable of fathering a child.
Neighbors whispered and criticized the glaring age gap, but he ignored them. Smiling proudly, he prepared for the wedding night, convinced Marisol would soon bear him a son.
She, resigned to her fate, forced herself to appear happy.
When the night arrived, Don Tomás, dressed in his finest clothes, drank a bottle of medicinal liquor he claimed would restore his youth. Taking Marisol’s trembling hand, he led her to the bedroom, his eyes burning with anticipation. She, nervous and fearful, managed only a fragile smile.
The moment grew intimate—until suddenly, Don Tomás’s face twisted in pain. His breathing grew ragged.
He released her hand, clutched his chest, and collapsed heavily onto the bed.
“Don Tomás! What’s happening?” Marisol cried, her voice breaking with terror.
She tried to hold him, but his body was already rigid, drenched in sweat. A guttural groan escaped his throat, chilling her to the bone.
The image of the liquor he had swallowed moments earlier flashed through her mind. What he believed would revive him had instead betrayed him.
Panicked, Marisol screamed for help. His daughters and relatives rushed in, only to find the old man lying lifeless and the young bride trembling with tears.
That night dissolved into chaos—screams, running, weeping.
At the hospital, doctors confirmed the inevitable: Don Tomás had suffered a sudden heart attack, brought on by age and strain.
Word spread quickly through the town.
Whispers became louder. Some pitied Marisol. Others sneered:
“He couldn’t even give her a son… justice has been done.”
Marisol said nothing. Her eyes, hollow, drifted into emptiness. She recalled her vow: “I will do my duty.” But that duty never began. Everything had ended in a tragedy no one had foreseen.
After the funeral, the money from the marriage cleared her family’s debts and paid for her brother’s treatment.
But the price was cruel: at just twenty, Marisol was a widow—branded forever as “Don Tomás’s second wife.”
Their wedding night, meant to mark the start of a life weighed down with expectations, instead became the final night of a man’s life… and the beginning of a burden a young woman would carry for the rest of hers.
