David’s hand found mine. “You never needed permission,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry my mom made you feel like you did.”
I squeezed his hand. “I don’t want to hate her,” I confessed. “I just want… boundaries.”
David nodded. “Then we’ll have them.”
The rehearsal dinner was held at Margaret’s club, of course, because Margaret needed to host something in a room that matched her identity.
Crystal glasses. Linen napkins folded into shapes that felt unnecessarily complicated. Waiters who moved like shadows.
Margaret gave a speech that was surprisingly restrained.
“We’re pleased,” she said, carefully, “to welcome Sarah into the Thompson family.”
It wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t barbed.
Afterward, while guests mingled, Beatrice cornered my mother near the bar.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” she gushed. “You were iconic. Why would you leave that world?”
My mother smiled politely. “Because it wasn’t my world anymore.”
“But the glamour,” Beatrice insisted, eyes hungry. “The power.”
My mother’s gaze stayed kind but firm. “Glamour is exhausting,” she said. “Power without peace isn’t worth much.”
Beatrice blinked like she didn’t understand the sentence.