Don Tomás, seventy years old, was a wealthy farmer in a small rural town in Oaxaca.

His first wife, Doña Rosa, had passed away ten years earlier, leaving him with three married daughters who lived nearby. Though his daughters gave him comfort, Don Tomás still carried a restless longing in his heart: he dreamed of having a son who would carry on his last name, inherit his lands, and continue the family line.

Time was against him, yet the desire gnawed at him so fiercely that he decided to remarry.

His choice shocked the town. Marisol, just twenty, was the daughter of a poor family from the same village. She was as fresh and delicate as springtime, but poverty had carved hardship into her young life. Her parents, desperate for money to pay for their youngest son’s medical treatment, accepted Don Tomás’s generous offer without hesitation.

Though her heart rebelled, Marisol agreed to the marriage out of love for her family. On the eve of the wedding, she clutched her mother’s hands, tears sliding down her cheeks.
“I just hope he treats me well… I will do my duty,” she whispered.

The wedding was modest but striking. Don Tomás wanted everyone in town to see that he was still strong, still virile, still capable of fathering a child. Neighbors watched with raised eyebrows, whispering about the great gulf in age, but Don Tomás ignored them, his pride swelling with each congratulation.

Marisol, resigned, tried to smile and play the role expected of her, though her heart pounded with dread.

At last, the wedding night arrived.

Don Tomás, dressed in his finest clothes, poured himself a glass of a bitter medicinal liquor, boasting that it would “make him feel young again.” Then he reached for Marisol’s trembling hand, his eyes alight with anticipation. She forced a smile, fearful of what lay ahead.

But as the room grew hushed and intimate, everything changed in an instant.

Don Tomás’s face contorted in pain. His breathing grew ragged, shallow. He released Marisol’s hand, clutching his chest before collapsing heavily onto the bed.

“Don Tomás! What’s happening?” Marisol cried, her voice breaking. She tried to hold him, but his body was already drenched in sweat, rigid, and unresponsive. A guttural moan escaped his throat before silence fell.

The image of the liquor flashed in her mind—what he had trusted to restore his youth had betrayed him.

Desperate, she screamed for help. The household came running—his daughters, servants, and relatives—only to find the powerful patriarch lifeless beside his bewildered young bride.

The house filled with chaos, shouts, and wails. He was rushed to the hospital, but the doctors could only confirm the inevitable: Don Tomás had suffered a sudden heart attack, his age and exertion sealing his fate.

By morning, the whole town knew.

Tongues wagged. Some pitied Marisol, others mocked:
“He didn’t even manage to give her a son… fate is just.”

Marisol said nothing. She stared into the distance, hollow and lost. The words she’d told her mother haunted her: “I will do my duty.” But that duty never began. Instead, the wedding night that was meant to mark the start of a new chapter had become the end of Don Tomás’s life.

The money her family received was enough to pay her brother’s medical bills and lift them from crushing debt. But the price was heavy.

At only twenty, Marisol was left a widow, forever branded in whispers as “Don Tomás’s second wife.” What was supposed to be her beginning had become a burden she would carry for the rest of her days—proof of how one man’s unfulfilled dream had turned into another woman’s lifelong tragedy.