Dear diary,

          When I look at photos from my wedding day, I see a foolish, naive girl. There I am in a frilly tank top, tiny frayed jean shorts, and a cheap bouquet in hand. And there Rodrigo is in his tight leather pants, a faded black muscle-tee showing off the ink on his torso, and his long dark hair still wind-blown from the park. Eloping seemed romantic, but having a random person walk me down the aisle instead of my father and an ordained minister dressed as Elvis, is all too ridiculous now.

I almost tore up those photos a few days ago.

But today, I'm glad I didn't.

Now, my only regret is hurting my parents and the joy I robbed them of seeing their youngest get married. 

The drive back to the Bay Area the next day was longer than the drive to Reno. We sat in traffic for two hours trying to get through Sacramento when usually it would have taken less than thirty. As soon as we crossed the Bay Bridge with its iron suspension cables glinting under the San Francisco sun, reality settled in. I was a married woman, which meant I no longer had to abide by my parent's rules. A thrilling life was about to begin with me at Rodrigo's side while conquering the music world. 

Together, we would accomplish his dream of getting signed to a major music label, and we'd use his money to buy a mini-mansion with an extravagant pool, a home gym, and a personal chef. Then, for vacations, we'd sail around in a yacht drinking champagne. But, after a few years, we'd trade it for taking our children to an all-inclusive Disney World resort. My head was so submerged in wedded bliss I believed all of it could come true. 

But sobriety smacked me like an iceberg as soon as we entered my parent's home.

I thought they'd be happy for me when I walked through the door, with Rodrigo in tow and cheap wedding bands on our fingers. Instead, the living room turned into a fit of shouting as my father demanded to know why I stayed out all night without a single phone call. When I stuttered over my words and finally spat out the truth, his attention swung from me to Rodrigo. 

"And who is this coward who couldn't be bothered to introduce himself!" 

"He's my husband." I motioned to Rodrigo, but my father snarled.

"He can speak for himself!"

"It's ok, baby." Rodrigo kissed my temple and stepped forward to address the question. "I didn't ask you because Carmela can make her own choices and whether you like it or not, we're married."

"Por Dios, no!" my mother wailed, her body sinking onto the couch where she cradled herself as the protective plastic squeaked underneath her.

"You're an idiot, Carmela!" my sister Lina accused. 

"How could you do this to mom and dad?" Teresa demanded.

"We love each other. Why can't you be happy for us?" I bounced my gaze between them, but my sisters shook their heads.

"How can we be happy for a fool throwing her life away?" Lina scoffed.

"Grab your shit, Carmela! We don't have to listen to this," Rodrigo said, and I marched past my family like an obedient little wife, chin held high. 

They didn't understand our love, and I hated them for receiving us with anger instead of congratulations. They wanted to stand in our way and control my future. At least that's what I thought. Now, I don't blame them.

"This marriage will not stand!" my father said. "If it's not before God, it doesn't count."

"God?" Rodrigo sneered. "God is a fairytale, and your daughter is a grown woman. She can do whatever she wants."

"We don't even know who you are," my father shouted, his accent catching on the words. "Eres un malvado pedazo de mierda! How dare you come into my house looking like some drug addict with your long nasty hair and tattoos. If you think you're leaving here with my daughter—"

"Listen, viejo," I heard Rodrigo snap while I shoved clothes into a suitcase as my sisters stood in the bedroom doorway, condemning my behavior.

Posters of musicians covered the pink coral walls, and stuffed animals sat on the floral comforter. Dirty laundry spilled from a basket in a corner, and the desk where I often drew had colored pencils and charcoal scattered. It was the bedroom of a teenager, not the mature woman I thought I was.

"Carmela is mine now," Rodrigo continued. "She's my wife and going on tour with me, so there's nothing you can do about it."

"My daughter isn't leaving this house!" my father growled, followed by a loud crash and my mother screaming.

"Dad?" Teresa called out, her attention swinging towards the hallway.

"Real nice, Carmela. This is the trash you bring home?" Lina hissed.

We bolted for the living room, the suitcase dragging behind me as we ran. Our mother's cry blared like a tornado siren, and when we got to the living room, I shoved past my sisters to find Rodrigo in a headlock as my father landed jabs at his ribs. Shards of glass and porcelain crunched under their feet while they stumbled about, fighting. My father was in his fifties, but he still held his own from his boxing days, so I couldn't let him injure the man I was in love with. Without thinking, I barreled forward, flinging myself at him.

Looking back, my father had every right going ape-shit. It was like he could see the future and doing everything he could to prevent the heartbreaking road I was about to embark on.

But hindsight is twenty-twenty, right?

The power behind the tackle sent him stumbling sideways, freeing Rodrigo. I stepped in front of him, arms out like a goalie, and challenged my family to step closer.

"Mija, what are you doing?" my mother shrieked. "This isn't like you."

"Are you seriously taking his side?" Teresa asked. "This guy? Carmela, use your head!"

"I knew something was up." Lina wagged her finger. "You've been acting differently, and now we know why."

"I love him! Why can't you be happy for us?"

A warm, slender arm wove around my waist, and Rodrigo whispered, "Let's go, baby. We don't need them."

Their aggrieved gazes suffocated me, despite the air conditioning blowing through the vents. I was an adult, yet they stared at me like a child about to burn herself on the stove. Frustration radiated through my trembling limbs. Being the youngest in the family meant always being treated like a baby. They meant well, but protecting me too much stirred my curious nature. It was why Rodrigo's rebelliousness was so appealing. He represented the freedom I craved from their watchful eyes. What I didn't understand is they were protective because they cared. Instead, their love felt like a rope being tightened to keep me prisoner.

My father plucked the suitcase from the floor, dusted the exterior with his hardworking, callused hands, and stepped forward—handing it to me.

"We raised you better than this, but you must learn the hard way because this boy will hurt you. Now go."

Our fingers brushed when I took the handle, our eyes meeting, only for me to look away like a coward. Taking the suitcase from him felt final. Yet, I strode through the front door anyway, my red Converse meeting the concrete steps. Rodrigo's hand remained on the small of my back, guiding me towards his old Volkswagen bug.

"Don't look back, baby. I'm your family now, and we're going to be so happy," he whispered in my ear. "I'm going to give you the world. You deserve it."

The sad part is, I believed him as we drove off towards the future together, leaving more of my innocence behind.

He took me to his apartment in a San Francisco neighborhood surrounded by homeless people and addicts itching their skin to stave off their next fix. It was like that Guns N Roses song where Axl Rose asks, do you know where you are? Well, you're in the jungle, baby. 

I grew up in a neighborhood with middle, working-class families, where it was safe to play outside or meet your friends at the park down the street. The city's underbelly was new to me since my father always warned me to stay away from downtown. Yet, there I was with my packed bags, walking up a flight of carpeted steps, stained from lord-knows-what, the wall sconces flickering, and someone hollering at their spouse in the middle of the hallway as we weaved around them. 

Something crunched at my feet, bringing me to a stop to see what it was. A hypodermic needle revealed itself when I lifted my foot, and part of the shards were stuck to my Converse, along with the needle glinting beneath the light. 

"Ignore it." Rodrigo took my hand and guided me a few doors over. "This is real life, baby. You'll get used to it."

I wasn't sure if I could.

The keys jangled in his hand as he mashed it into the knob with a twist and then pushed the door open. He motioned for me to step in first, so I took one last peep over my shoulder at the arguing couple and slipped inside. Rodrigo's apartment building was far from glamorous, and I had hoped his private space would be more appealing, but it wasn't. The place was tiny, and the furniture was sparse, with a faded, tattered brown couch facing a small TV as soon as I stepped inside. Beer cans cluttered the coffee table, with an ashtray overflowing with cigarettes, which added to the stale nicotine odor in the air as I wiggled my nose. 

One pivot to the right was a door for the bathroom and a kitchenette beside it. A stack of pizza boxes sat on the counter, leaving enough space for the dirty dishes piled in the sink while takeout cartons overflowed the trash bin.

"Welcome home, baby." Rodrigo kissed my temple, the door clicking shut behind him. "I know it's a mess, but hey, now that we're married, you can help me keep the apartment clean." 

"Maybe we can even save up and find a nicer place?" I blurted.

"Rent is too cheap here to move. We've got it made. Trust me." He grabbed my suitcase and gave me a verbal tour by pointing to the bathroom and the kitchen as we walked past them. After three short strides, we stopped in front of the closet to the left of the TV. "You can hang your clothes in here."

Except there was one crucial thing missing as I glanced about—the bed.

"Where do we sleep?"

"Right here..." He tapped the scuffed hardwood floor with his combat boot. "I use a blow-up mattress with a pump. This place is too small for a real bed."

"Oh..."

"I know this must be alarming for you, but this is real life, baby." He wrapped his arms around me and pressed his forehead to mine. "I could live in a cardboard box and be happy, as long as it's with you. But I promise, one day, I'll buy you the house of your dreams. This tour is going to change everything for the band. I can feel it."

Closing my eyes, I exhaled and nodded. His dreams were mine now, so I would be the greatest, most supportive wife and prove my family wrong about us. 

Our future was bright and full of promise.

Or so I thought.