12 days before the wedding, I was standing in Janet’s living room. She was carefully pinning my mother’s antique lace veil into my hair. A veil my mother had worn at her own wedding had passed down to me with what I thought was meaning, when my phone lit up on the coffee table. Mom. I should have let it ring. 31 years of conditioning answered for me.
“Tori, honey.” No hello. No, “How’s the veil fitting?” Just the voice I’d spent a lifetime rearranging myself to please. “Your father and I have talked this through. Preston’s boutique launch falls on your wedding weekend. The investors are flying in from four countries. He needs us there. We’re going to Dubai.”
I stood perfectly still. The veil felt suddenly very heavy. “What about my wedding?” I heard myself say. My voice came out like it belonged to someone else. Someone very far away and very young.
“Tori, don’t be dramatic. You have Liam’s whole family there. We’ll do a dinner when we’re back, and somewhere really nice. Preston needs his family right now.”
Preston needs his family. Not, “You are our family.” Not, “You need us too.” Just, “Preston needs,” and Tori will understand.
“Okay,” I said, and I hung up.
Janet sat down the veil pins. She didn’t say a single word. She walked across the room and held my shoulders, both hands firm and steady, and she just held me until I could breathe again. I didn’t cry. I’d spent so many years training myself not to cry over them that the tears had learned to stay.