Chapter 4
After that, I stopped discussing the wedding with my parents.
Completely.
No updates.
No menu discussions.
No photographs.
No seating charts.
No questions about flowers.
Nothing.
And something strange happened.
Planning became peaceful.
My fiancé and I chose everything together.
We cut the guest list from one hundred sixty people to ninety-eight.
Not to punish anyone.
We simply realized how many names had been there because my mother wanted them.
Her neighbors.
Dad’s business acquaintances.
People I had met twice.
Friends of friends.
At Aster House, every chair belonged to someone we actually wanted near us.
Our rehearsal dinner became a barbecue beneath string lights beside the lake.
Our ceremony moved to the old stone terrace.
Dinner would be served inside the conservatory.
No grand ballroom.
No enormous chandeliers.
No six-foot flower walls designed for photographs.
It felt better.
It felt like us.
Two weeks before the wedding, RSVPs were finalized.
Mom and Dad had not responded.
I had still reserved two seats.
I told no one.
Maybe that was weakness.
Maybe hope.
I didn’t care.
The morning of June fourteenth arrived warm and clear.
I woke in one of Aster House’s guest cottages with sunlight coming through linen curtains.
For ten seconds, I forgot everything.
Then I remembered.
Wedding day.
My phone had thirty-one notifications.
I ignored them.
My sister was getting married thirty-eight minutes away at the venue that had once been mine.
I wished her happiness.
Quietly.
Honestly.
Then I put the phone away.
At eleven, flowers arrived.
At noon, my hair was done.
At one, my fiancé sent a note through his best man.
Three sentences.
No matter who is sitting in those chairs today, when you walk toward me, I’ll be looking at one person.
You.
Come marry me.
I cried so hard the makeup artist threatened to leave.
At three thirty, guests began arriving.
At three forty-five, my aunt came into the cottage.
“You should know something.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“Your parents aren’t here.”
I nodded.
“I know.”
“Your mother called your grandmother this morning. They’re at your sister’s venue.”
“I expected that.”
My aunt hesitated.
“A lot of people are asking what happened.”
“They can ask after the wedding.”
She smiled.
“That’s exactly what I told them.”
Then she hugged me.
At four o’clock, the music started.
I stood behind the garden doors holding my bouquet.
Through the glass, I could see everyone.
Friends.
Cousins.
Coworkers.
My fiancé’s family.
My grandmother.
My aunt.
People who had driven hours.
People who had flown in.
People who had rearranged schedules because they wanted to be there.
And in the front row were two empty chairs.
Mom.
Dad.
For one second, I was eight years old again.
Waiting backstage at a school performance while Mom drove my sister to a dance competition.
Then I was fourteen.
Looking into the bleachers during an awards ceremony and finding two empty seats because my sister had a soccer game.
Then twenty-one.
Graduation.
They arrived after my name was called.
There had always been a reason.
There had always been something more urgent.
Someone who needed them more.
I looked at those chairs.
Then the doors opened.
My fiancé turned.
And everything else disappeared.
I walked toward him.
Nobody gave me away.
I had decided that weeks earlier.
I walked myself.
Halfway down the aisle, my grandmother reached out and squeezed my hand.
I kept going.
When I reached the front, my fiancé whispered, “You okay?”
I looked at him.
“I am now.”
We got married beneath the oak trees at 4:17 that afternoon.
Nobody interrupted.
Nobody compared anything.
Nobody mentioned my sister.
For twenty-three minutes, there was no competition.
There was only us.
During dinner, my phone remained inside the cottage.
I didn’t see what was happening elsewhere until nearly eight.
That was when my fiancé’s sister brought it to me.
“You might want to look.”
I had forty-two missed notifications.
Most were photographs from our guests.
But there were also nine missed calls from Mom.
Three from Dad.
And one message from my sister.
Call me when you can.
My stomach tightened.
I stepped outside.
The lake reflected the lights from the conservatory.
Music drifted through the open doors.
I called my sister.
She answered immediately.
“Hey.”
“Everything okay?”
She laughed.
Not happily.
“Depends.”
“What happened?”
There was a pause.
Then she said something I never expected.
“Mom left my reception.”
“What?”
“She and Dad left forty minutes ago.”
“Why?”
“To come to yours.”
I stared across the water.
“They’re coming here?”
“Apparently.”
I didn’t know what to say.
My sister continued.
“Mom spent half my reception checking pictures from Aster House.”
I closed my eyes.
“She kept asking people who was at yours. What the flowers looked like. What your dress looked like. Whether Grandma stayed for dinner.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
Her voice cracked.
“Don’t apologize.”
Another silence.
Then she said, “I finally understand.”
“Understand what?”
“What you’ve been angry about.”
I leaned against the stone railing.
She continued.
“I got the venue. I got Mom and Dad. I got the bigger guest list. I got everything they said was more important.”
Her voice became quieter.
“And somehow she still spent my wedding talking about you.”
That landed hard.
“This was never about making me happy,” she said. “It was about winning.”
Neither of us spoke for several seconds.
Then she laughed bitterly.
“And once you stopped competing, Mom didn’t know what to do.”
Headlights appeared beyond the estate gates.
I knew before anyone told me.
My parents.
“I think they’re here,” I said.
My sister exhaled.
“Of course they are.”
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
At least she was honest.
“But I will be.”
Then she said one last thing.
“Don’t let her turn your reception into another fight.”
I looked through the conservatory doors at my husband.
My husband.
That word felt incredible.
May you like
“I won’t.”
We ended the call.
