Greg lowered his head.
“When I got my first job interview, Jenna drove across town with an iron because I had destroyed my shirt.”
People laughed.
“When I got sick freshman year, she drove three hours with soup because my father thought telling me to drink water over the phone counted as medical care.”
Greg laughed sadly.
“That sounds right.”
“When I wanted to quit nursing school, she sat beside me until two in the morning and never once told me what to do.”
Hannah’s voice began trembling.
“She just kept asking me what I wanted.”
Tears blurred my vision.
“For eight years, Jenna loved me without asking for anything back.”
The room disappeared.
All I could see was Hannah.
“My dad gave me strength.”
She looked toward Greg.
“My mother gave me life and so much of who I am.”
She touched the pearls.
“And Jenna…”
Her voice cracked.
“Jenna taught me something about chosen love.”
She stepped away from the sweetheart table.
The microphone stayed in her hand.
Her dress moved behind her.
She walked past Greg.
Past the front table.
Toward me.
Nobody moved.
I stood before she reached me because I did not know what else to do.
Hannah took my hand.
Then hugged me.
Hard.
I closed my eyes.
Her veil touched my cheek.
“I saw you,” she whispered.
“What?”
“At the ceremony.”
She pulled back.
“I saw you in the second row.”
I could not speak.
“And I saw you didn’t have your corsage.”
My eyes flicked toward Greg.
His face had gone pale.
“I don’t know who made you think you needed to disappear today.”
Hannah’s voice was quiet now, but the microphone carried every word.
“You are not an extra in my life.”
My knees nearly weakened.
“You never were.”
The whole room stayed silent.
Then Hannah reached toward the centerpiece on table four.
She removed one small white rose.
She tucked it carefully into the lace over my heart.
“I would not be the woman marrying Ethan tonight without you.”
She looked at me.
“You didn’t give birth to me.”
I nodded.
“You never asked for the title Mom.”
Tears ran down her face.
“But you earned my trust every single day.”
Then she hugged me again.
“I love you.”
I finally found my voice.
“I love you too.”
The applause began.
Not instantly.
Karen stood first.
Clapping.
Crying.
Then Ethan.
Then almost everyone.
I looked over Hannah’s shoulder.
Greg was standing beside his chair.
His head bowed.
He stared at the floor.
When he finally looked up, our eyes met.
I saw shame.
Not embarrassment that he had been publicly contradicted.
Something deeper.
Recognition.
He had spent the week deciding where I belonged in his daughter’s life.
Hannah had just told him he never had the authority to decide that for her.
Later, the dance floor filled.
Old swing songs.
Country music.
A terrible group line dance I refused to participate in.
I escaped onto the balcony.
The October air was cold.
The river reflected lights from the buildings across it.
I touched the white rose pinned above my heart.
The door opened.
Greg stepped outside carrying two glasses of sparkling cider.
He handed me one.
I accepted.
For nearly a minute, we stood without speaking.
Then he said:
“I was an idiot.”
I looked at him.
That was not a sentence Greg used often.
“I thought I was protecting Audrey.”
“I know.”
“I thought recognizing you too much somehow meant diminishing her.”
“I know.”
He shook his head.
“That sounds ridiculous out loud.”
“It sounded painful in the kitchen.”
He winced.
“I’m sorry.”
I looked toward the glass doors.
Inside, Hannah was dancing with Ethan.
Audrey’s pearls shimmered beneath the lights.
Greg followed my gaze.
“I kept thinking love had limited space.”
He swallowed.
“If Hannah gave some of that space to you, I thought Audrey lost it.”
“That isn’t how memory works.”
“I know.”
“Now.”
“Yes.”
He looked down at his cider.
“I took everything you did for granted because you never complained.”
I let him continue.
“You made it look easy.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I know.”
“No. Greg.”
He looked at me.
“It was not easy.”
My voice shook.
“I loved a grieving teenager who sometimes hated me because I understood why she needed to.”
He listened.
“I spent eight years constantly checking whether I was stepping into somebody else’s place.”
“I know.”