it go. She was seven and proud of packing her own bag and who was I to ruin that.
That morning my gown hung in the bridal suite while my sister Megan did my hair, and there were photographers popping in and out, and bridesmaids everywhere, and my aunt was having a full
crisis about her mascara clumping. Pure chaos, the good kind.
Barbara came in and out several times. Helping, supposedly. At one point she disappeared for a good twenty minutes, and I honestly didn’t even register it in all the commotion. Why would I?
She was the mother of the groom. She was allowed to wander off.
By the time I actually stepped into my dress, I was so overwhelmed and running so behind that I didn’t inspect it. The train was long, easily six feet, and pooled out behind me, and I couldn’t see
the back of
it anyway without contorting myself in front of the mirror. So I didn’t look.
And then Barbara, of all people, became incredibly, suddenly helpful.
“Here, let me carry your train,” she said, gathering the long fall of fabric up over her arms as we
moved toward the doors. “You don’t want it dragging through the dust.”
“Thank you,” I said, genuinely touched. “That’s so kind.”
“Of course, dear.”
And right before the doors opened for me to walk in, she crouched down behind me, out of my sight.
