Simone stood in the bridal shop holding a receipt.
The alterations had been paid for.
So had the dress.
Her mother folded her arms.
“I told you it was handled.”
“By whom?”
Before she could answer, Simone’s father appeared between the rows of white gowns.
She hadn’t expected to see him.
“You said you couldn’t come.”
He removed an envelope from his shirt pocket.
Inside was a card bearing one sentence.
I never received your wedding invitation.
Simone turned toward her mother.
“You said he declined.”
“He didn’t answer me.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Her parents had been separated for fifteen years. Simone had learned to arrange birthdays in shifts and repeat every piece of news twice.
This time, she had asked her mother to pass on the invitation while visiting his neighborhood.
It had seemed simpler.
Her mother looked away.
“I didn’t deliver it.”
The shop assistant quietly withdrew to the fitting room.
Simone’s father placed the card on the counter.
“I found out the date from your cousin. I came to ask whether you wanted me there.”
Simone stared at the receipt.
“And you paid for this?”
“I offered. You don’t owe me a seat because of it.”
That answer made her cry.
She asked her mother to leave for a few minutes.
Then she sat beside her father in the waiting area, surrounded by dresses she no longer felt like trying on.
“I wanted you there.”
“I’ll be there.”
At home, Simone rewrote the wedding arrangements herself.
She sent every invitation directly. She told both parents where they would sit and what she expected.
Neither was asked to pretend the past had been easy.
On the wedding morning, her father arrived early.
Her mother arrived separately.
Simone met them at the door.
For once, nobody had to carry a message between them.
End of Narrative
