Our younger daughter, Sophie, nineteen and fierce and never once in her life able to hide a feeling, cried harder than I did. She stood beside her sister as maid of honor with mascara streaking down her face and didn’t care one bit.
Tom sat in the front pew on the other side of the aisle.
Alone.
At least, I thought he’d come alone.
Part Three: The Pale Blue Dress
The reception was held in a hotel ballroom with tall windows and strings of warm lights draped from the ceiling. I had just found my table and was reaching for a glass of water when I happened to look toward the entrance.
Tom was standing in the doorway.
And beside him, one hand tucked neatly through his arm, was Kristen.
His wife of four months.
I had met Kristen exactly twice. Emma had met her once, briefly, at a birthday dinner. Sophie had never met her at all.
And Tom hadn’t mentioned bringing her. Not to me. Not once.
She wore a pale blue dress and a hopeful, slightly nervous smile. She looked, I’ll admit, lovely. That somehow made it worse.
My eyes went straight to Emma across the room.
