“I’m only saying that perhaps he doesn’t have to be part of the ceremony.”
I stared at her.
Margaret continued before either of us could interrupt.
“You need to think practically. This isn’t one photograph. It’s the whole sequence—the walk down the aisle, the formal album, the enlarged prints, the photograph that might hang in our house.”
My stomach tightened.
Then she said the sentence I would remember for years.
“His face will be in every picture.”
Daniel froze beside me.
Margaret kept going.
“You’ll be looking at those photographs for forty years. I just don’t want those pictures.”
For several seconds, the room was completely silent.
Nothing had physically changed.
The candles still flickered.
The clock still ticked.
The plates were still sitting in front of us.
Yet somehow, the entire room felt different.
I placed my glass on the table very carefully.
There were at least six things I wanted to say.
Maybe sixty.
That is my brother.
Say his name.
Tell me precisely what you think is wrong with his face.
Tell me why your hallway or fireplace should have any influence over my wedding.
Tell me why you believe the photographs matter more than the person standing beside me after we both lost our father.
I had already opened my mouth when Daniel reached beneath the table and squeezed my hand.
Once.
“We’ll figure something out,” he said.
For half a second, I stopped breathing.
I turned toward him.
Was he actually suggesting we remove Nathan?
Then I saw Daniel’s face.
He wasn’t agreeing with Margaret.
He was stopping me.
Because he knew me.
Daniel knew that if I began speaking at that moment, I would not stop until every bridge in that room had burned to the ground.
And worse, Nathan might eventually hear about it.
So instead of giving Margaret the confrontation she deserved, I smiled.
Actually smiled.
Then I said, “The salmon was very good.”
Daniel nearly inhaled his water.
Margaret looked completely bewildered.
Fifteen minutes later, dinner ended.
I remained silent until Daniel had driven several miles.
Then I said, “Pull over.”
He glanced at me.
“Why?”
“Because I need to yell, and I’d prefer you weren’t driving when I do it.”
He pulled into a gas station.
The second the car stopped, I unfastened my seat belt.
“What was that?”
“I know.”
