That was all I said.
It wasn’t exactly a lie.
My father had stepped back from daily operations.
And we barely spoke.
I didn’t tell Roland that “logistics” meant Caldwell Freight.
By then, I had spent my entire life watching people change when they learned my last name.
Teachers suddenly became kinder.
Boys became more interested.
Friends’ parents suddenly wanted dinner invitations.
I wanted to know whether someone could love me without knowing any of it.
I thought Roland did.
We married two years later.
A small garden wedding in Inman Park.
Sixty guests.
Mostly Roland’s relatives.
His mother, Beverly.
His sister Faye.
Aunts.
Uncles.
Cousins.
I invited my father.
I mailed the invitation to the Peachtree Road house with a handwritten note.
I’d like you to be there.
He sent an antique silver tea service that had belonged to my grandmother.
With a card.
I’m sorry. I’m in London. — Dad.
Raymond came.
He sat in the back row wearing his charcoal suit.
When Roland’s relatives asked who he was, I said he was an old family friend.
At the reception, I overheard Beverly speaking near the cake table.
“Her own father didn’t even come. Imagine that. Poor girl has practically no family. Just that older man in the back. Roland is really all she has.”
