Minha irmã disse: “Não venha ao meu casamento, você vai nos envergonhar.” Mas eu fui… e então...

The sound of the rain hitting the bus station roof seemed to match the bitter taste of the reheated coffee I held in my hands. The clock above the platform showed almost seven o'clock at night, and the delayed buses made people pace back and forth with irritation etched on their faces. I was exhausted. My name is Iris Valença. I was twenty-nine years old that night and felt emotionally drained, like someone who had spent years trying to prove her worth to people who had already decided to see nothing beyond their own arrogance. My heels were hurting me. My makeup had started to smudge because of the humidity. And my cell phone vibrated incessantly inside my bag. I thought it was a message from the office. It wasn't. When I pulled out the device, I saw my sister's name on the screen. "Helena." It had been almost three weeks since she had spoken to me.