Later, as David and I danced under strings of lights in the courtyard, he leaned in and whispered, “You know what my favorite part of your dress is?”
I smiled, expecting him to mention the silk or the fit or the way the beadwork shimmered when I moved.
“What?” I asked.
He kissed my cheek, then murmured, “That underneath all its fancy pedigree, it’s being worn by the kindergarten teacher I fell in love with.”
I laughed softly. “That’s not the dress,” I said. “That’s me.”
“Exactly,” David said. “And that’s why it’s perfect.”
As the night deepened, I caught Margaret watching us from across the patio. Her expression was unreadable, caught between pride, discomfort, and something like realization.
When our eyes met, she didn’t look away.
She lifted her glass slightly, not in celebration of the spectacle, but in acknowledgment.
It wasn’t an apology.
But it wasn’t contempt either.
It was a step.
And for the first time since meeting her, I believed steps might actually be possible.
Part 6
Six months after the wedding, Margaret invited my mother and me to tea.
The invitation itself was unexpected. Margaret didn’t invite; she summoned. She hosted. She orchestrated.