No old arguments.
No resentment.
No one calculating who was sitting where or who was speaking to whom.
Just Emma.
Happy.
Our younger daughter, Sophie, cried harder than I did.
Tom attended the ceremony alone.
At least, that was what I thought.
It wasn’t until the reception that I saw him standing near the ballroom entrance.
And beside him was Kristen.
His wife of four months.
I had met Kristen twice.
Emma had met her once, briefly, during a birthday dinner.
Sophie had never met her at all.
Tom had never mentioned bringing her.
Not once.
Kristen stood beside him in a pale blue dress, her arm linked through his.
I immediately looked across the room at Emma.
Her smile disappeared.
Only for half a second.
Then it came back.
That was Emma.
She walked over.
Kissed her father’s cheek.
Hugged Kristen.
“I’m glad you made it.”
If you didn’t know my daughter, you would have believed every word.
But I knew her.
Her shoulders had gone stiff.
Sophie appeared beside me.
“You have got to be kidding.”
“Don’t.”
“He brought her?”
“Sophie.”
“Emma barely knows her.”
“It’s Emma’s wedding. Let Emma handle it.”
Sophie looked across the room at her sister.
Emma was already showing Kristen where to sit.
“That’s the problem,” Sophie muttered.
“Emma handles everything.”
I should have listened to that too.
Kristen didn’t exactly stay in the background.
When the photographer called for pictures with the bride’s parents, Tom stepped forward.
Kristen went with him.
The photographer lowered his camera.
“Just Mom and Dad for this one.”
Kristen immediately began stepping away.
Tom touched her arm.
“She’s fine.”
Kristen looked toward Emma.
Almost as though asking permission.
Emma hesitated.
Then smiled.
“It’s fine.”
The picture was taken.
Sophie stood beside me.
“Unbelievable,” she whispered.
Later, while the wedding planner was checking place cards, Kristen suggested that Tom should be seated closer to the bride.
Emma overheard.
“His seat is fine.”
Kristen smiled.
“I was only trying to help.”
A while later, I noticed Kristen speaking with the DJ.
She was holding a folded piece of paper.
Sophie noticed too.
“What is that?”
I already knew.
A toast.
Kristen had apparently prepared a speech for a bride she had met once.
“Mom.”
“Don’t.”
“I haven’t even said anything.”
“Your face has.”
By dinner, Sophie’s frustration was obvious from across the ballroom.
I found her near the bar.
