My mother said I should stay in the kitchen during the wedding photos—only until the “important guests” were gone. I didn’t mention that for the past year I had been

My throat burned. I stared at the tablecloth so I wouldn’t cry in front of strangers who didn’t deserve my vulnerability.

People clapped, louder this time. Some clapped because they were moved. Others clapped because it sounded like the right thing to clap for.

Later, during dancing, Clare grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward a side hallway near the kitchen corridor, where the sound of the party was muffled and the air smelled faintly of coffee and butter.

Her eyes were red, mascara smudged. “Sophia,” she whispered, voice shaking, “I’m so sorry.”

I leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted. “For what part?” I asked, not cruelly. Just truthfully. “The back row? The photos? Or the fact that my name card was apparently next to the kitchen door?”

Clare flinched. “Mom told me it would be better,” she said, voice cracking. “She said… she said you’d ruin the picture because you weren’t successful enough.”

I let the words hang between us. The hallway felt too bright, too clean, too full of things nobody wanted to admit.

“And you believed her,” I said softly.