“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
He offered no excuses, and that helped.
Emma took my hand.
“Can we still do this?”
I looked at her in her wedding robe, then at Ryan and David, before glancing toward the doors where the other Laura had left.
“Yes,” I said. “We can.”
A few hours later, Emma married Ryan.
The wedding cake stood untouched in the reception hall, its three white tiers decorated with delicate flowers.
Before the cake-cutting, Ryan approached me.
“Laura?”
I turned.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For what you said to her.”
I nodded.
“You were allowed to keep your story private.”
He seemed relieved.
“But secrets have consequences, even when the reason for them is good.”
He glanced toward Emma.
“I know.”
Later, the photographer called out.
“Who’s helping with the cake?”
Emma pointed across the room.
“My mom.”
I looked at her, unexpectedly moved by those two simple words.
