You sit down before your legs can betray the trembling in them.
Your fingers find the worn fold of your purse and hold on. For a moment, you think of leaving. The idea slips into your mind so quickly it almost feels like instinct. You could stand now, step back outside, and let them think whatever they want. Marco would be angry later, hurt even, but maybe it would be easier than sitting here while strangers in polished shoes decide what kind of mother belongs at the wedding of a successful son.
Then the organ begins.
And before you can gather yourself enough to become invisible again, the back doors open and Lara appears in white.
The church shifts toward her like flowers toward the sun.
She is beautiful, there is no use pretending otherwise. The gown is elegant without being cold, the kind of dress designed not only to flatter a woman but to make a room agree she is important. The veil trails behind her, a soft cloud of silk and lace. Her father stands at her side, stern and proud and expensive-looking in the way some men are when life has rarely forced them to bend.
