“I don’t know you well enough to hate you.”
She laughed through tears.
That was probably not comforting.
I sat beside her.
“Why did you text Michael?”
She wiped her face.
“Because after she came back, she looked…”
She searched.
“Happy.”
My stomach tightened.
“Happy?”
“Not normal happy.”
“Like she had won something.”
“She took a shower.”
“Then she checked the time.”
“She asked me what time your attorney said the transfer was happening.”
I stared.
“How did she know my attorney mentioned the time?”
The sister looked uncomfortable.
“She read Michael’s message.”
My eyes narrowed.
“What message?”
“His phone was on the table during rehearsal dinner.”
“He had texted your attorney asking whether everything was still scheduled for noon.”
“She saw it.”
I closed my eyes.
Another piece.
“She knew exactly when.”
“Yes.”
The sister whispered:
“She kept saying noon.”
“Like if she could get through the ceremony until noon, everything would be fine.”
I looked toward Michael across the ballroom.
He was surrounded by friends.
None of them knew that.
Not yet.
“Tell investigators.”
“I will.”
“Tell Michael tomorrow.”
“Why not tonight?”
“Because tonight he has enough.”
She nodded.
Then whispered:
“Do you think he’ll ever forgive her?”
I looked toward the closed ballroom doors.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you?”
I thought.
“That question is not useful tonight.”
She nodded.
Fair.
Dinner continued.
It was the strangest formal meal I have ever attended.
People did not know whether to laugh.
So eventually, they did.
Not about what happened.
About everything else.
My eighty-four-year-old aunt complained that the salmon was dry.
My brother told her that if public humiliation and a failed wedding did not improve the seasoning, nothing would.
Someone nearly choked on champagne.
The string quartet started playing again.
At first nobody danced.
Then my aunt stood.
She had a cane.
She used it more as punctuation than support.
She walked to the dance floor.
Looked at the bandleader.
“Play something with a pulse.”
They did.
She danced alone for perhaps fifteen seconds.
Then pointed at my brother.
“You.”
He groaned.
Went anyway.
People laughed.
The atmosphere loosened.
That was when Michael sat beside me.
He had removed his tuxedo jacket.
Tie loosened.
No ring.
He looked exhausted.
“Mom.”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop.”
“I should’ve—”
“Stop.”
He looked toward me.
I touched his hand.
“You did not do this.”
“I brought her into your life.”
“You brought someone you loved into your life.”
“I should’ve seen—”
“No.”
My voice sharpened.
Several people nearby looked over.
I lowered it.
“Do not turn hindsight into evidence you were stupid.”
“She hid parts of herself.”
“You explained things because you loved her.”
“That is not stupidity.”