“Are you mad at me?” she choked out.
“No, baby,” I said, holding her face in my hands. “I’m mad at the person who did this.”
And I already knew exactly who.
That seemed to satisfy her. She nodded and stood, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand before heading toward the kitchen.
I stayed where I was a moment longer, breathing through the knot in my chest.
Then I stood and went downstairs.
Earlier that morning, the house had felt full in the best and worst ways.
The scent of toasted bagels mixed with perfume and hairspray. Relatives I hadn’t seen in years drifted through the living room holding paper cups of orange juice, offering congratulations that landed somewhere between genuine and obligatory.
Someone had music playing softly from a phone balanced on the counter, and every few minutes a woman’s voice floated down the hallway asking if anyone had seen her shoes.
My soon-to-be groom, Daniel, stood near the coffee pot, listening patiently as my Aunt Sheryl talked about how proud everyone would have been to see me settled down again.
