Her name is Margaret.
I’d known her for five years.
We’d never been close, but we’d always been civil.
She likes things done properly.
Napkins ironed.
Christmas cards mailed by December first.
Family photographs coordinated.
She once made Daniel change shirts before Thanksgiving dinner because his navy sweater “argued with the table runner.”
So when she invited us over to discuss wedding details, I expected questions about seating charts.
I didn’t expect Nathan.
Dinner was almost over when she put down her fork.
“I wanted to ask about the processional.”
Daniel looked up.
“What about it?” he asked.
“Is Nathan still walking Sarah?”
I glanced at him.
“Yes.”
Margaret smiled.
Not warmly.
Carefully.
“He can come, obviously. Nobody is saying he can’t come.”
“Mom—” Daniel began.
“I’m saying he doesn’t have to be in it. Sweetheart, think practically. It isn’t one picture. It’s the whole aisle sequence, the album, the enlargement, and what goes above our fireplace too.”
