Camille didn’t argue. She just shook her head.
“She told me she wouldn’t say anything. I told her to let me try first.”
“She doesn’t care what you say,” I muttered. “She never did.”
That wasn’t fair. I knew that, but it felt true in that moment.
My chest burned with a strange mix of vindication and sadness. It was everything I’d expected, but it still hurt.
I sat down across from her.
The idea I’d been nursing, the one that had begun forming the second I saw my mom’s post, finally started to solidify into something real.
Something bold.
“I want to change the guest list,” I said.
Camille looked up, startled.
“To what?”
I stared at her, weighing the risk.
“I’ll let you come. And Aunt Seline and Lily, that’s it.”
She blinked.
“You’re serious?”
“You’re the only one who showed up to say anything in person. The only one who owned up to what’s been going on. You don’t deserve to be punished for their choices.”
Camille nodded slowly.
“Thank you,” she whispered, voice cracking.
“But,” I said, holding up a hand. “Don’t expect forgiveness overnight. This isn’t some magical reunion. It’s one small step.”
“I get that,” she said, standing. “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I should have stood up for you years ago.”
I didn’t reply. I just nodded once, and she left.
That night, I showed Mariah the post.
She read it slowly, then looked at me.
“Do you want to respond?” she asked.
“I do,” I said. “But not online. I want to respond in person on our terms.”
Her brow furrowed.
“What are you thinking?”
I smiled for the first time in hours.
“I want to make our wedding about us, not them. But if they’re going to paint me as the villain for taking control of my life, then maybe it’s time I embrace it just once.”
Mariah didn’t even hesitate.