A Wedding Denied: A Father’s Heartfelt Story
At 68 years of age, I arrived at the Serrellanes Country Club clad in my finest Italian suit. The lavish wedding, drawing 300 guests, cost a staggering 5 million pesos, marking it as the priciest event in Cali this year. The secret behind the financing, however, was known to no one. Armed with my invitation, which I had personally funded for printing, I approached the entrance—500 golden-raised Italian invitations, each costing 80,000 pesos.
As I reached the entrance, Valeria awaited me. Unlike a typical bride greeting guests, she barred my way, dressed in a 15 million peso wedding gown, which, too, had come from my bank account. “Dad,” her tense voice pierced the air, “we need to talk.” “Hello, darling. You look stunning,” I tried to embrace her; however, she instinctively stepped back. “You cannot enter,” she stated, her words hitting me like stones cast into still water. “I didn’t invite you, Dad.”
The entire Mendoza family had decided I no longer belonged. My presence would be deemed uncomfortable. I searched Valeria’s eyes for any sign that this was merely a cruel joke, but her brown eyes, a mirror of her mother’s, displayed a chilling resolve. “Valeria, I am your father.” “I know and I appreciate everything you’ve done, but Patricio’s family holds certain standards, and you—well, you’re simply not fitting into the image we wish to project.”
“The image?” I repeated, feeling as though these words were spoken in a foreign tongue. What image? “Dad, you’ve dedicated your life to accounting. While it’s honest work, it doesn’t align with the social standing of the Mendoza family. They are developers, creating real estate empires. Patricio will inherit a fortune, and I will be part of that.” I understood, my voice surprisingly calm despite my inner turmoil. “And my money does fit into their image.” She noticeably blushed.
“That’s different. Different as in, ‘Please, Dad, avoid causing a scene. The ceremony starts in 20 minutes. Just leave, and I will call you after our honeymoon.’” I pulled my phone from my pocket, my fingers steady and sure despite my years, swiping through applications. “Alright, daughter. I will go. However, prior to that, you should check your phone.” “My phone? Why?” “Just do it,” I urged. “Check your messages, your emails, and your bank account.” She frowned but retrieved her iPhone from her handbag.
“I don’t have time for this,” she said, managing a smile that was, for the first time that afternoon, genuine. “You’ll want to make time for it.” What Valeria didn’t realize was that I had been quite busy over the past two weeks. It was two weeks ago when I received a call from Patricio, ‘Don Ernesto, we need to discuss the wedding.” “Of course, Patricio. What can I do for you?” “It’s a sensitive matter,” he replied, dragging out the words with the typical arrogance of someone who has never had to exert themselves.
“My family and I have been reviewing the guest list.” “Alright,” I acknowledged. “And we feel that in order to maintain a certain level, specific individuals should not be present.” “Specific individuals?” I pondered. “You, Don Ernesto, nothing personal, you understand, but my father is very particular about his social circle, and a retired accountant doesn’t quite fit in with the developers, entrepreneurs, and politicians who will be in attendance.” The silence on the line indicated my shock as I processed this information. “Does Valeria know about this?” I eventually asked. “She agrees. In fact, it was her suggestion. She claimed it would simplify things if you simply did not show up.”
“I see. I assume you understand, Don Ernesto, it’s nothing personal against you.” I hung up without replying. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat in the study where I had spent 40 years managing numbers, investments, and financial strategies. At the same place where Claudia used to bring me coffee late at night, ensuring Valeria had everything she needed: private schooling, university abroad, her first apartment—all in my name as she didn’t qualify for loans. The car she drove was also registered under my name for better insurance rates, and the credit cards she used freely were linked to my account because Patricio, the heir to the empire, apparently didn’t earn enough to sustain his lifestyle.
The following morning, I called three individuals. Firstly, I reached out to the notary Dr. Benjamín Acosta, who was both managing my legal affairs for 20 years. “Benjamín, I need to completely modify my will.” “Are you sure, Ernesto? That’s a drastic change,” he inquired. “Totally certain.” Secondly, I spoke to my bank manager at Banco de Bogotá, Mauricio. “I need to cancel several things: the guarantee for my daughter’s apartment, her additional card, and all automatic transfers.” “Ernesto, that will leave your daughter in a rather precarious position.” “That’s exactly the point,” I affirmed. Lastly, I contacted the coordinator at Los Arreyanes Country Club. “Ms. Beatriz, this is Ernesto Villamizar. Regarding the event on May 15.”
Valeria was watching her phone with growing horror. Her face drained of color beneath her professional bridal makeup which likely cost a fortune. “What? What is this?” I asked, feigning innocence. “There’s a message from the notary saying you modified your will. She raised her voice, panic rising within her. “It states you disinherited me.” “Indeed, it’s correct. The 4 to 5 million pesos you expected to inherit will now go to the Claudia Villamizar Foundation for Children with Cancer, in honor of your mother.”
“You can’t do that.” “Of course, I can. It’s my money.” As she frantically scrolled through her phone, I continued, “The bank says you canceled my credit card.” “That’s right. You won’t need my card. After all, you’re marrying a Mendoza. Surely, Patricio can support you.” Her eyes narrowed, and she replied, “I funded for 2 years while you and Patricio saved for the wedding. The balance has now transferred from your savings account to mine. Thanks for keeping some money there. By the way, you made the transfer easier.” “That’s theft.” “It’s recovery from a debt with three lawyers. Completely legal.”
Her hands trembled as she continued to read, “You canceled the apartment guarantee?” “Yes. Starting Monday, the bank will require full payment or proof of sufficient income to sustain the credit.” “Spoiler alert: you don’t have it.” “They will probably repossess the apartment, but don’t worry. I’m sure the Mendoza family and their empire can help you find another place.” I had made a monumental error, mistakenly assuming my daughter loved me more than material possessions. Patricio strolled into view, his immaculate tuxedo and perfectly slicked hair presenting the image of a successful heir. “What’s going on here, Valeria? Why are you outside? Guests are waiting.” “Your father just ruined us,” she shouted, her elegant bride persona completely falling apart.
Patricio cast a genuine look of confusion towards her. “You didn’t tell him, Valeria?” I inquired gently. “Did you not inform him that all the funds came from me? The apartment, the car, the European vacations—all from my account. The hall, catering, flowers, your dress, your tuxedo, the honeymoon in Santorini—you name it. All financed by me.” “Valeria?” Patricio turned toward her. “You told me your family had money.” Her voice rose in pitch. “You said your father left you investments.”
“I thought you assumed I was going to inherit soon,” I clarfied. “That’s why you felt free to spend my money because you thought it was yours.” Eventually, Patricio took a step back, looking at Valeria as if he were seeing her for the first time. “Your father is a retired accountant. You work part-time at a boutique. How did you think we could afford all of this?”
“Because he promised me everything,” she pointed at me. “He promised to take care of me.” “And I did, for 34 years,” I responded. “I provided you with education, a home, opportunities. I supported you when you chose not to finish college. I helped you open your boutique, which closed in 6 months. I paid off your debts three times and continued providing even when you decided to marry someone whose family deems me unworthy of attending their wedding.”
“Dad, but not anymore.” “From today on, you are a married woman, a Mendoza as you always desired. So, let the Mendoza family support you.” Patricio began inspecting his phone. “Now Valeria, the hall is stating that the payment has been canceled.” “What?” “The club is stating that the charge was reverted; we owe 2 million pesos, or there will be no ceremony.” “That’s impossible.” “Not really,” I interrupted. “I called the club this morning. Since the charge was on my card, I had the right to dispute it. They followed through with proper reason.”
“The wedding won’t continue without the payment.” “There are already 300 people inside,” Valeria screamed. “Then I suggest your new husband start making calls. I bet among all the developers invited, they can gather 2 million, although they will have to act promptly. The club closes at 6.” It was in that instant that everything shifted in an instant. Patricio’s father, Don Rodrigo Mendoza, exited the club. He was a sizable man, around 65 years old, accustomed to having people part ways whenever he entered a room. “What on earth is happening here, Don Rodrigo?” I stated civilly. “I apologize for the interruption, but there appears to be a minor issue regarding the wedding payment.”
“You’re the accountant,” he scrutinized me with barely concealed disdain. “I thought we made it clear you weren’t welcome here.”