Then my father’s hand hovering near my back, not pushing me forward, not pulling me away,'s' just there in case my knees forgot their job.
Behind us, the church doors stayed closed. Inside, two hundred guests were probably whispering over white flowers, gold programs, and a wedding that had stopped at the edge of one missing word.
I had not said “I do.”
Three syllables had saved me from a lifetime of questions I might never have been allowed to ask again.
Megan followed us outside carrying my bouquet like it had personally offended her. She kicked off her heels on the church steps and said, “I knew that man had fine print.”
I almost laughed.
Almost.
Instead, I looked down at my dress. White lace. Long sleeves. Tiny pearl buttons. The dress Claire Prescott had called “tasteful enough” after rejecting my first choice as “too modern.”
For the first time all day, I wanted out of it.
My father noticed.
“Car’s around the side,” he said. “Your mom is waiting.”
“My mom?”
“She had a feeling.”
Of course she did.
Mothers often know the truth before daughters are ready to say it.
We walked around the church, away from the front steps where photographers had been waiting for a smiling bride and groom. My mother stood beside my father’s truck, holding a garment bag, sneakers, and the soft gray sweater I had worn to the rehearsal the night before.
She did not cry when she saw me.
