He was staring at the little suitcases on my train. Just staring at them. And then he lifted his eyes
nd he looked at his mother, and I saw an expression come across his face that I had never once seen in all the years I’d known him. Not anger, exactly. Something colder and quieter and much more final than anger. I didn’t know what it meant. It scared me a little.
Brandon turned to the pastor.
“Please,” he said, his voice very level. “Give me five minutes.”
And then he turned and walked away from the altar. Straight back down the aisle, past all the staring guests, and out the main doors of the room.
I stood there at the front, alone, in my ruined dress, watching the doors swing shut behind him.
My first thought was that he just needed air. That the shock of it had knocked the wind out of him and he needed a moment to collect himself.
My second thought was much darker, and
hated myself for it even as it formed.
What if Barbara finally got to him?
What if this was the thing that did it? What if, faced with the public humiliation, faced with the reality of the baggage his mother kept talking about, some part of him was out there right now reconsidering? Brandon had spent years proving he loved my daughter. But I knew, too, that
