She brought sketches for bridesmaids’ dresses, subtle and elegant, and offered to tailor them in a way that made each bridesmaid feel comfortable rather than identical. She spoke about fabric like it was a language. She moved through rooms like she belonged everywhere without needing to prove it.
Margaret hovered around her like a planet drawn into a stronger orbit.
It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so telling.
Beatrice also hovered, because Beatrice liked proximity to power more than she liked people.
One afternoon, while I sat with Elena and my mother reviewing veil options, Margaret lingered in the doorway.
“Catherine,” she said, hesitant in a way I’d never heard before, “I had no idea.”
My mother looked up, calm. “No,” she said gently. “You didn’t.”
Margaret’s cheeks flushed. “You never mentioned it.”
My mother’s expression didn’t change. “You never asked.”
The silence that followed wasn’t hostile. It was instructive.
Margaret cleared her throat. “I… I suppose I made assumptions.”
“Yes,” my mother said simply.
Elena, with perfect timing, saved Margaret from drowning in her own discomfort.