On the morning of her wedding, Hannah is moments away from marrying the man she has loved for four years. But before she can walk down the aisle, one trembling warning from his mother turns her perfect day into a choice she never expected to face.
Morning light poured through the stained-glass windows of the church, scattering rose and gold across the marble floor. The hum of two hundred guests drifted under the door of the bridal suite, soft as a hymn, and the scent of white roses hung so thick I could taste it on my tongue.
Four years. Four years of late-night phone calls, shared apartments, and whispered plans about the house we would buy. And now Craig waited for me at the altar.
He kissed my forehead and stepped back to look at me. His eyes were already shining.
“You look like a painting, sweetheart,” my father said from the doorway.
He was already in his suit, his tie crooked the way it always got when he was nervous. I crossed the room and straightened it for him.
“Don’t make me cry before the aisle, Dad.”
“Then I’ll save it for the speech.”
He kissed my forehead and stepped back to look at me. His eyes were already shining.
A soft knock interrupted us. Florence appeared in the doorway, her cream-colored dress immaculate, her purse clutched against her chest like a shield.
She didn’t move from the threshold.
“Hannah. I—” Her voice caught. “I wanted to—”
“Of course, come in.”
She didn’t move from the threshold. Her hand slipped to the clasp of the purse, half-opening it, and I caught the pale edge of an envelope inside before her fingers closed over it again. Her knuckles went white. Her smile did not quite reach her eyes.
“The bouquet is beautiful,” I tried. “Did you see the arrangements in the chapel?”
“I did. They’re lovely.”
She had always been this way with me. Polite. Cordial. Never quite warm.
Her gaze slid past me to the window, then back to the purse, then away. She drew a breath as if to say something more and let it out empty.
“It can wait,” she murmured. “It’s nothing. You look beautiful, Hannah.”
She had always been this way with me. Polite. Cordial. Never quite warm.
“She’s just nervous about losing her boy,” my father whispered when Florence drifted back into the hallway without another word. “Mothers get like that.”
My bridesmaids floated in with my veil, all giggles and last touches.
“I know.”
But she had skipped the family photo. Slipped away when the photographer called her name. I had seen her standing alone near the side chapel, pressing a tissue to her mouth.
“Nerves,” I said again, mostly to myself.
My bridesmaids floated in with my veil, all giggles and last touches. Sarah, my maid of honor, fastened the combs into my hair.
“You ready, Han?”
Behind me, in the reflection, a shadow moved across the doorway. Slow. Hesitant.
“I have been ready for four years.”
“Then we’ll give you one minute alone with the dress. Soak it in.”
They filed out, the door clicking softly behind them. I turned toward the long mirror and met my own eyes, calmer than I expected.
This was it. The day I had planned in a thousand journal entries.
I lifted my chin and smoothed the lace at my waist.
Behind me, in the reflection, a shadow moved across the doorway. Slow. Hesitant.
My father appeared behind her, his boutonniere slightly crooked, his brow knitting.
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