Part joy.
Part rage.
Because behind us, my mother and sister stood checking their watches as if my grandmother’s existence were an inconvenience.
The Morning After the Wedding
That night, I thought the worst part was over.
I believed the only challenge had been enduring their humiliation without letting it ruin the happiest day of my life.
I was wrong.
The next morning, violent knocking shook my front door.
When I opened it, my mother and sister burst in looking pale and frantic—like people who had just witnessed a car crash.
“You have to come now!” Diane shouted.
“Right now!” Lauren added, her voice trembling.
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