“Nathan.”
“But Andrea isn’t joining us.”
Isabella glanced toward the staircase.
“You’re punishing me.”
“No.”
“You’re punishing me.”
“You’re choosing her over your own mother.”
“This isn’t me choosing Andrea over you, Mom.” He held up the phone. “This is me telling you what you did isn’t okay.”
She looked at the photograph again.
“You’re choosing her over your own mother.”
Nathan lowered the phone.
“You don’t get to hurt her because you want her to make you feel included.”
Upstairs, I knew none of this yet.
I was watching my bridesmaids fasten the damaged train into the bustle.
Upstairs, I knew none of this yet.
When they finished, I stood.
The dress was wearable.
It wasn’t fixed.
The torn lace was still there if you knew where to look.
“It’s not the same,” I said.
Mom came beside me.
“No.”
The dress was wearable.
I looked at her in the mirror.
