When the priest pronounces them husband and wife, the church erupts.
People stand. They clap. Some are still crying openly. Lara’s little niece throws flower petals in the wrong direction. Someone laughs through tears. Marco kisses Lara, and then, before he can be pulled into handshakes and photos and congratulations, he turns back toward you and reaches for your hand again, bringing you into the space beside them as if that position had belonged to you all along.
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After the ceremony, the reception hall feels like a different country from the church.
Or maybe it is the same country, seen through truth for the first time.
At first, guests approach you the way people approach a person who has survived public pain they were complicit in. Too warm. Too careful. Too full of awkward admiration that arrives only after someone else has done the brave thing first. Women who ignored you before now tell you your dress is beautiful. Men who would not have remembered your name at the church doors suddenly want to shake your hand and tell you how inspiring your son is.
