Chapter 2 - Dad's Cufflinks
She heard me out. All of it. When I was done, she didn't ask if I was sure. She said, "That might be the best instruction a bride has ever given me."
I walked into that wedding with one rule taped to the inside of my head: stay calm, let the day unfold, trust the plan.
Toby wore Dad's cufflinks. He didn't tell me until we were standing together at the back of the church. He tugged his sleeve back and showed me, and I had to tip my head up and stare at the ceiling fan for a good ten seconds to keep from falling apart.
Then the doors opened.
He offered me his arm exactly the way he'd rehearsed it — formal, solid, chin up. We walked every step of that aisle together. Not one stumble.
At the reception, Margaret was gracious. She smiled for the group photos. She told the caterer the peonies were stunning. She didn't know yet.
Three weeks later, the album arrived.
I was standing in Ethan's parents' kitchen when Margaret untied the box and opened the cover.
She turned to the first page and stopped moving.
The opening image. Full bleed, edge to edge.
Toby and me at the back of St. Ambrose, one breath before the doors swung open. His arm threaded through mine. His face.
She turned the page.
Toby and me halfway down the aisle.
Another page. The handoff at the altar.
Another. Toby framed right beside Ethan and me at the front of the church.
She lifted her eyes to mine, slow as anything.
"You planned this."
I smiled at her. "He practiced."
May you like
Her mouth opened —
and that was the moment Ethan's aunt leaned in from the other side of the table and said, low, "I think there's something you both need to know. About what she said to me before the wedding."
