My father stayed close, quiet and stiff. He looked like a man who’d spent years assuming he understood his own daughter, only to discover he’d been reading the wrong book entirely.
Clare and her new husband, Ethan Wellington, were swept into a storm of congratulations. Ethan looked handsome and polished, but he had the particular posture of someone raised to be watched—chin lifted, shoulders squared, smile measured. When he hugged me, it was brief, careful, like he was unsure whether closeness would contaminate the picture.
“Nice to see you,” he said. “And… welcome.”
“Congratulations,” I replied, and meant it. Clare’s happiness mattered to me, even if it had been tangled up with everyone else’s insecurity.