I looked at her face.
She wasn’t looking at the priest.
She was looking at me as if she were trying to memorize every detail.
“I do,” I said.
Her lips trembled.
When she answered, her voice was barely louder than a whisper.
“I do.”
Then came the rings.
Eleanor slipped a simple gold band onto my finger. I placed one on hers, and she held my hand against her chest.
“Now I can finally say I’ve been married,” she whispered.
“You can say it as often as you like.”
“Careful. I might become unbearable.”
“Become?”
She laughed.
The photographer took our picture.
For that one afternoon, Eleanor wasn’t a patient waiting for death.
She was a bride.
We cut the cake, and she stole the largest piece before anyone could stop her.
Rebecca accused her of cheating.
Eleanor looked scandalized.
“I’m the bride. I outrank you.”
“That’s not how weddings work.”
