The mother-in-law looked down on the bride’s mother for her humble life. She couldn’t fathom the quiet pain that woman carried. When Elena spoke, the entire room lowered their heads.

Doña Patricia Ramírez adjusted her gold bracelet discreetly, shifted her shoulder just enough so that the heavy silk of her dress caught the chandelier’s light in the elegant Mexico City salon. Silence fell. She knew how to command it. Money, years of social events, and the habit of being the center of attention had taught her well.

Camila tensed instantly. She had seen it coming. All evening, she had noticed her mother-in-law’s eyes on her mother, the whispers shared with friends as Patricia pointed at Elena Morales’s sober gray suit, the frown when Elena handled her silverware with a subtle uncertainty.

“Mom, please,” Alejandro whispered.

Patricia had already taken the microphone.

—Dear friends—she began—“I want to say a few words about my son’s election.”

The room fell silent, like the moment before a storm.

“Of course, I imagined a different daughter-in-law. From our circle. With the right background”—she paused—“But love, as we know, doesn’t ask questions. He fell in love. With a simple girl, from a very modest family. Anyway, we’ll get over it.”

Elena sat at the end of the table, eyes on her plate, hands resting gently on the snow-white tablecloth.

“However, it now seems,” Patricia continued, “that we’ll have to support not only the newlyweds, but all their relatives as well. Because when your mother has spent her entire life serving food to children in a public school cafeteria”—she smiled wryly—“you can’t exactly call it a dowry, can you?”

Some guests laughed awkwardly. Others looked away.

Patricia savored it.