She wasn’t.
We sat in my car outside a drugstore while she cried from relief and embarrassment.
“Please don’t tell Dad yet.”
“I won’t unless I think you’re unsafe.”
She looked at me.
“You’re not mad?”
“No.”
“My dad would lose his mind.”
“Your dad worries loudly.”
She laughed.
Eventually, we told Greg together.
At seventeen, her boyfriend Mason broke up with her three days before homecoming.
She sat on the kitchen floor eating strawberry ice cream straight from the carton.
“I hate boys.”
“Reasonable.”
“Men too.”
“Mostly.”
“Dad?”
“Exception on probation.”
She laughed so hard ice cream came out of her nose.
That night, I realized I had become part of Hannah’s emotional home.
Not her mother.
Something different.
But something real.
I thought Greg understood.
Apparently I had been wrong.
—
Wedding planning began ten months before the ceremony.
Hannah and Ethan wanted an autumn wedding in an old stone chapel, followed by a reception at a renovated mill overlooking the river.
Hannah called me the morning after Ethan proposed.
“Jenna.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“You sound like someone is chasing you.”
“I’m engaged.”
I dropped my coffee mug.
Fortunately, it survived.
“Say that again.”
She laughed.
“Ethan proposed.”
I screamed loudly enough that Greg ran into the kitchen thinking someone was hurt.
When he understood, he sat down.
Then cried.
Greg cried maybe once every five years.
Hannah arrived an hour later and held out her hand.
The ring was simple—an oval stone on a thin gold band.
Perfect for her.
I hugged her, then immediately stepped back.
“What?”
She frowned.
“I don’t want to overstep.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This is your wedding. You tell me what you want from me.”
