David’s family was wonderful. His mother, a woman who smelled of Chanel No. 5 and unconditional love, pulled me into a hug that threatened to crack my ribs. “You have us now, Nola,” she whispered. “You’re our daughter now.”
She meant it kindly, but her words felt like a knife twisting in my gut. Her kindness only magnified the gaping hole my own parents had left. I spent two hours smiling until my face ached. I danced. I laughed at speeches. But a small, stupid, childish part of me kept glancing at the main entrance, hoping to see my father rush in, blaming traffic on I-64.
They never came.
Later that night, in the hotel suite overlooking the harbor, the silence finally caught up with me. My phone sat on the nightstand, a black brick of rejection. No missed calls. No “Congratulations.” No “We’re sorry.”
David found me standing by the window, staring at the silhouette of the USS Wisconsin. He wrapped his arms around me from behind.
“You don’t have to keep waiting, Nola,” he said, his voice vibrating against my back. “Family isn’t the people who are supposed to show up. It’s the people who do.”
I turned and buried my face in his chest. But later, when his breathing was deep and even, I slipped into the cold marble bathroom, turned on the shower to mask the sound, and slid down the wall. I pressed my fist into my mouth and sobbed until I dry-heaved. It was the ugly, silent crying that tears you apart from the inside.
The sun rose the next morning, mocking me with its cheerfulness. We were on the balcony, sipping coffee we couldn’t taste, trying to salvage a honeymoon from the wreckage.
Then, my phone pinged.
The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet morning. My heart did a stupid, treacherous leap. Maybe they’re sorry.
