“Dad,” she hissed, glancing toward the rows of white chairs, crystal glasses, and guests in designer dresses. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming like this?”
Grandpa blinked. “Like what, Marlene?”
She looked him up and down. Worn shoes. Weathered hands. The little paper bag holding his gift.
“Like a homeless man who wandered in from the highway.”
My stomach turned.
“Mom,” I said, stepping forward, “stop.”
Her eyes cut to me. “Not now, Claire.”
But I was already moving toward Grandpa. He looked smaller than I remembered, but his eyes were still kind. The eyes that had taught me chess, patience, and how to read people who lied with perfect lipstick.
Then Mom grabbed his elbow.
Not gently.
She dragged him around the side of the catering tent, past the floral arch, past the champagne tower, and shoved him behind two black trash cans.
“Stay here,” she snapped. “That old beggar will embarrass us.”
For one second, the world went silent.
Then I heard myself laugh.
Not because it was funny. Because rage sometimes comes out wearing the wrong face.
“You just shoved your own father behind garbage.”
Mom whipped around. “Lower your voice.”
“No.”
A few guests turned. Daniel saw us from the altar and frowned, not worried for Grandpa, only annoyed that the scene was visible.
I stepped in front of my grandfather. “He came for your son. He deserves a seat in the front row.”
Mom’s hand flew before I could finish.
The slap cracked across my cheek so loudly even the string quartet faltered.
“You ungrateful little girl,” she said, breathing hard. “Security!”
Two men in black suits came fast. I did not resist when they took my arms. I only looked at Daniel.
“Are you really going to let her do this?”
My brother adjusted his cufflinks. “Claire, don’t ruin my wedding.”
Grandpa whispered, “Let it go, sweetheart.”
