Dessert arrived.
Vanilla cake with raspberry filling.
Patricia’s favorite combination.
She accepted a small slice.
Brittany looked at it.
“Mom, sugar is terrible for inflammation.”
Patricia’s hand remained near the fork.
“I won’t finish it.”
“Then why start?”
Brandon laughed lightly.
“She has a point.”
Patricia placed the fork down.
“I’m not very hungry.”
I felt something settle inside me.
Not rage.
Clarity.
I pushed the cake closer to her.
“Eat as much as you want.”
“George, please.”
“Patricia, you did not spend your life raising a child so his wife could make you afraid of dessert.”
The guests nearest us went quiet.
Brittany stared at me.
“I don’t appreciate your tone.”
“I don’t appreciate yours.”
Brandon leaned forward.
“Dad, this is our wedding.”
“Yes.”
“Can you not create a scene?”
I looked around the ballroom.
“The scene was created before the guests arrived.”
His face changed.
Just slightly.
Enough.
The lights dimmed before he could answer.
A spotlight moved toward the head table. The master of ceremonies stepped onto the dance floor with a microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the first dance.”
Applause filled the room.
Brandon stood.
His chair slid easily across the floor.
He buttoned his jacket and extended one hand toward Brittany.
She smiled for the audience.
This was the moment she had planned for months. The dress, the lighting, the photographer, the choreographed turn beneath the chandeliers.
She placed her hand in his.
Then she tried to stand.
Nothing happened.
Her upper body lifted slightly. Her hips remained fixed to the chair.
The smile stayed on her face, but confusion entered her eyes.
She tried again.
The chair moved with her.
A few guests laughed softly, assuming the gown had caught on a carved edge.
Brittany looked down.
“Wait.”
Brandon’s smile tightened.
“Come on.”
“My dress is snagged.”
“Then pull it loose.”
She placed both hands on the chair arms and pushed.
The front legs lifted an inch before settling back onto the floor.
The room grew quieter.
“I can’t.”
Brandon bent toward her.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m stuck.”
His gaze moved to me.
I did not look away.
Brittany tried to twist. The fabric held.
Then she said the word without meaning to.
“Glue.”
Patricia looked at her.
“What?”
Brittany’s eyes moved to Patricia’s clean chair.
Then to the place cards.
Then to me.
The realization arrived all at once.
“You switched them.”
Her voice was barely audible.
Patricia looked confused.
“Switched what?”
Brandon stepped closer to his wife.
“Keep your voice down.”
“You knew.”
“I didn’t know he saw us.”
Their mistake was not the adhesive.
Their mistake was forgetting that panic makes people honest.
Several guests near the table heard them.
The master of ceremonies attempted to fill the silence.
“Looks like our bride loves her seat.”
A few uncertain laughs followed.
Brandon gripped Brittany’s hands.
“Stand up on three.”
“Don’t pull.”
“One.”
“Brandon.”
“Two.”
“Wait.”
“Three.”