Dad was in a groom’s room with his brother and two coworkers, looking like a man headed to sentencing instead of marriage.
We didn’t go to either room.
We went straight to the aisle.
Guests turned.
Whispers started.
Grandma carried a black box this time.
Not cedar.
Black lacquer.
Silver latch.
The kind of box that looked less like a gift and more like a verdict.
The wedding planner saw us and went pale.
“Mrs. Eleanor,” she whispered. “I don’t think—”
Grandma said, “Good. Thinking has been in short supply around here.”
We sat in the front row.
On the bride’s side.
That was Grandma’s idea.
“Sarah’s sister,” she said. “Family seat.”
The quartet began.
Dad walked out first.
When he saw us, he nearly stopped.
Valerie appeared at the end of the aisle a minute later.
She looked stunning.
I hated that she looked stunning.
Her dress fit like it had been poured onto her. Her veil trailed behind her. Diamonds flashed at her ears.
She smiled at the guests.
Then she saw Grandma.
Then me.
Her smile sharpened.
She kept walking.
I had to admire that. In another life, Valerie could have ruled countries. Unfortunately, she had chosen a suburban household and emotional terrorism.
She reached Dad.
The officiant began.