there at the front of the room, with the whole wedding watching, they cut every single one of those little suitcases loose from my dress. One by one. The threads snapping. The little fabric bags dropping to the floor. And Lisa’s most of all, that big one with her name on it, which Megan
cut free and handed to
me, and I balled up in my fist.
And then, somehow, after one of the ugliest, most humiliating moments of my entire life, we got married.
Lisa stood right up front between us the whole time, not a flower girl off to the side anymore but standing between her mom and her dad where she belonged, and when Brandon said his vows he looked at both of us when he said them. Both of us.
At the reception, we didn’t put out the fancy engagement photo everyone expected on the table by the cake.
We put out Lisa’s picture frame. The blue cardboard one, shedding gold glitter, plastic jewels peeling off the edges.
MY NEW DAD & ME.
It sat right there next to our wedding cake all night long, and it was the most beautiful thing in the room, and I dare anyone to tell me it wasn’t.
That
ight, after everyone had finally gone home and the last car had crunched away down the gravel drive, the three of us went upstairs to our room at the bed-and-breakfast.
Lisa marched in, changed into her pajamas, and climbed right up into the exact middle of the big bed and settled in like she owned it.
Brandon sat down and started taking off his shoes. “You know,” he said, “this is supposed to be your mom and my wedding night.”
“I know,” Lisa said, not moving one inch. “Correct.”
