At one point, Hannah glanced around, but the photographer adjusted her chin and took another picture.

Being voluntarily small is dangerous.

People get used to the empty space quickly.

At dinner, Karen leaned toward me.

“You’re quiet.”

“Long week.”

She watched me.

“Did Greg say something?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“Because you’ve been taking care of this wedding for ten months and tonight you’re sitting like a guest who wandered into the wrong reservation.”

I laughed softly.

“That specific?”

“Yes.”

I glanced at Greg across the room.

“Hannah’s wedding is about Hannah.”

“That is not an answer.”

I didn’t want to involve her.

So I said, “I’m just trying to respect everybody’s place.”

Karen looked at Greg, then back at me.

“Oh.”

That was all.

She understood.

Before leaving, she hugged me longer than usual.

The wedding morning was cold and clear.

The old stone chapel looked centuries old, with gray walls, heavy wooden doors, and stained glass scattering red and blue light over the pews.

I arrived an hour early in a navy lace dress bought off the rack.

Nothing remotely resembling mother-of-the-bride clothing.

No garment bags.

No emergency kit.

No sewing supplies.

I waited outside the bridal-suite hallway.

The coordinator hurried past, then stopped.

“Mrs. Bennett?”

“Jenna is fine.”

She smiled and opened a small box.

“Here’s your corsage.”

Inside were white roses, baby’s breath, and ivory ribbon.

Beautiful.

Mother-of-the-bride beautiful.

My chest tightened.

“I think there’s a mistake.”

“No. Hannah ordered it specifically.”

“I appreciate it, but please give it to Aunt Karen.”

The coordinator blinked.

“What?”

“Or place it at Audrey’s memorial table.”

“Hannah put your name on this.”