I excused myself and wheeled toward her.
She walked me, or rather walked alongside me as I wheeled, to a quieter corner near the bar.
And then she turned to face me, and her voice was low and controlled and absolutely ice cold.
“I need you to leave,” she said.
I genuinely thought I’d misheard her.
“What?”
“I need you to leave the reception. You’re making people uncomfortable. Every time someone looks at you, they get sad. And I don’t want sad energy at my wedding. I’ve tried to be patient about this, Savannah, but you’re—you’re a lot. And today isn’t about you.”
I couldn’t speak.
I actually could not form words.
“I’ll have someone call you a car,” she continued, already turning away. “This isn’t personal.”
Not personal.
I finally managed to say, “Brooke, I’m your sister.”
“And I love you,” she said with this horrible plastic smile. “But you’re ruining the aesthetic.”
The aesthetic.
She actually said that.
I am not a person who makes scenes.
I have spent my entire adult life learning to be graceful in moments that don’t deserve grace.
But something happened in me at that moment.
Something cracked open, and my voice, when it came out, was shaking.
“You’re asking me to leave your wedding because I’m in a wheelchair.”
“I’m asking you to leave because—”
“Say it, Brooke. Say the real reason.”
She didn’t, but the look on her face said it anyway.