When he proposed two years later—on a quiet trail at a state park, with sunlight filtering through bare branches and his grandmother’s ring trembling slightly in his fingers—I said yes before he finished the question.
Margaret’s response, when David called her, was crisp and cold.
“Congratulations,” she said. “I suppose we’ll need to start planning immediately. There’s so much Sarah will need to learn about how things are done in our world.”
I could practically hear her setting the chessboard.
Wedding planning became her battlefield. Every decision was an opportunity to remind me—gently, with pretty words and sharp edges—that the Thompsons did things differently.
The venue? The Thompsons didn’t do barns, even if the barn was renovated and charming and had chandeliers and a view of rolling hills.
The caterer? The Thompsons didn’t do buffet-style, even if the food was fantastic and the guests would be happier.
The flowers? The Thompsons didn’t do wildflowers, because wildflowers suggested someone who didn’t understand refinement.
David tried to be the bridge. He would pull me aside after a tense phone call and say, “We can do what we want. It’s our wedding.”