Per bride.
My stomach sank, but I kept my voice steady.
“Can I take a picture of this?” I asked.
Denise hesitated briefly, then gave a small shrug. “It’s your family.”
So I took a single photo. Close enough to capture the chart, the blue dots, and that note in the corner.
When I returned to the table, Brooke was laughing with one of her bridesmaids, tilting her head back so her earrings caught the light. She noticed the crackers in front of Ava, and for a split second I saw recognition cross her face—not confusion, not surprise. Recognition.
Then she smiled at me.
“We had to make a few last-minute adjustments,” she said. “I’m sure she’ll be fine for an hour.”
My brother was across the room, caught up in photos with old friends. He had no idea. Ava sat quietly, hands folded in her lap, trying not to cry in the middle of his reception.
I didn’t shout. I didn’t flip tables. I didn’t interrupt the first dance, the cake cutting, or the carefully curated image of family Brooke had been building all day.
