He had moved to Seattle for work.
Later married a pediatrician named Leah.
I received announcement, not invitation.
Correct.
Vanessa heard too.
She disappeared from family communication for two weeks.
When she returned, she told Mom:
“I needed to be ugly somewhere private.”
That sentence made me laugh when Mom repeated it.
At least she knew.
Aaron and I married when I was thirty-eight.
Small ceremony.
Forty guests.
No pools.
That was not intentional.
Mostly.
I invited Vanessa.
The decision surprised everyone.
Including her.
She called.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me there?”
“Yes.”
“If I come, people will talk.”
“People always talk.”
“You used to hate when I said that.”
“You used it to avoid responsibility.”
“I’m using it now to ask if my presence will hurt you.”
I smiled.
“See?”
“What?”
“Therapy.”
She laughed.
At wedding, Vanessa sat with Mom.
She did not give speech.
Did not seek attention.
When photographer called family, she stood beside me.
Not touching until I took her hand.
She looked at our joined hands.
Her eyes filled.
“Don't.”
I whispered.
“I’m trying.”
“You'll ruin makeup.”
“Your priorities have changed.”
“Marriage does that.”
We smiled for photograph.
That image eventually sat on my mantel.
Not because it erased pool.
Because both existed.
Five years after the incident, Lakeshore Arden Resort renovated its terrace.
Removed old pool edge.
Added glass barrier.
Probably unrelated.
I still noticed when I saw photographs.
That same year, Mom died.
Stroke.
Sudden.
She was seventy-four.
Vanessa called me first.
Not hysterical.
Quiet.
“Emily.”
I knew from her voice.
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
“Mom is gone.”