For most of the wedding planning, Barbara actually behaved herself, which I should have found
more suspicious than I did.
She grumbled about the guest list being too big. She thought the flowers were outrageously expensive, and said so, more than once. But those were normal mother-of-the-groom complaints,
the kind everybody’s family makes. She even offered, out of nowhere, to help with some of the decorations, and I was so relieved at the gesture that I said yes and thanked her and thought, maybe Brandon’s right. Maybe she’s coming around.
I think about that a lot now. How grateful I was. How I let her closer
precisely because I wanted so badly to believe the worst was behind us.
The morning of the wedding, I was a mess of nerves and happiness.
We were getting married at a little bed-and-breakfast about forty minutes outside of town, this
beautiful old place with a garden, and we’d booked rooms to stay a few nights afterward with Lisa. She’d been calling it our “family honeymoon” for weeks, so proud of the phrase, and had insisted on packing her own suitcase the night before. A little purple rolling one, her favorite.
“You’re not allowed to check it, Mommy,” she’d told me, very seriously, standing guard over the zipped-up bag.
“Okay, okay.” I put my hands up. “I surrender. But only if you swear you packed everything you need. Toothpaste. Underwear. The important stuff.”
“Everything,” she said solemnly. “I promise. I checked twice.”
I let it go. Of course I let
