Early Saturday morning, I invited Herman's family and my brother and sister-in-law to a farewell dinner to discuss the wedding.
We waited at the restaurant for a long time. Herman never showed.
I called seven times. He didn't pick up until the last one.
Before I could even speak, I heard a child crying in the background.
"Can you stop rushing me? If you can't wait, just eat first. We already settled the wedding plans. What's there to even talk about?"
I paused. Whatever shred of dignity remained between us had just been ripped away.
My brother's expression darkened.
I said nothing and hung up.
The atmosphere at the table turned awkward.
His parents rushed to smooth things over.
"He's a doctor, you know. Always busy. Let's just eat."
I didn't respond. My resolve only hardened.
As I picked up my chopsticks, a message popped up on my phone.
Sorry, there was an emergency patient just now. I was in a rush. I'll be right there.
I didn't reply.
It wasn't the first time he'd used "being in a rush" as an excuse to hurt me.
Half an hour later, Herman finally arrived.
He had Herbert with him.
"His parents had something to do, so I'm watching him. Figured I'd bring him along for the meal."