My mother said I should stay in the kitchen during the wedding photos—only until the “important guests” were gone. I didn’t mention that for the past year I had been

Clare’s eyes filled. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“I know,” I said gently. “And I’m still here.”

She nodded, wiping her cheek. “I want to learn how to be here too,” she said. “For real. Even when it’s not pretty.”

I set the spoon down and pulled her into a hug. “Then stay,” I said. “And we’ll practice.”

Part 9

Wedding planning is supposed to be joyful.

For me, it felt like standing at the edge of a lake that might freeze or might swallow you whole.

Daniel and I started with a conversation that had nothing to do with venues.

“What do you want it to mean?” he asked me one night, sitting on my couch with a notepad.

I stared at the blank paper. “I want it to feel like us,” I said.

He nodded. “Define us.”

I smiled faintly. “Quiet truth,” I said. “Not a performance. Not a pageant. Not a power event.”

Daniel’s eyes softened. “Okay,” he said. “Then we do that.”

The first venue suggestions came from other people, not us. Historic mansions. Exclusive clubs. Places that sounded like they came with a dress code for your soul.

Then the Wellingtons called Clare.

I knew because Clare texted me immediately.

Ethan’s mom wants to “help” with planning. She’s talking about a joint society weekend. Like it’s a brand collaboration.

I stared at the text until my eyes went hot.

Daniel read it over my shoulder. “No,” he said simply.

The next day, my mother called, voice tentative. “Sophia,” she began, “I heard you’re thinking about something small.”

“Yes,” I said.

She hesitated. “The Wellingtons suggested… maybe the estate. It would be so beautiful. And secure.”

Secure. The word hit like an insult wearing a polite suit.

“I’m not getting married at the place where I was almost seated by the kitchen door,” I said, voice calm but final.

My mother went quiet. “Right,” she whispered. “Right. Of course.”

Clare called later, voice shaky with anger. “I told Ethan’s mom no,” she said. “She acted like I’d committed a crime.”

“How did Ethan react?” I asked.

“He backed me up,” Clare said, sounding surprised. “He actually said, ‘This isn’t about you, Mom.’”

A small smile tugged at my mouth. “That’s growth,” I said.

“It is,” Clare agreed, then sighed. “But she’s going to keep pushing.”

“Let her push,” I said. “We’re not moving.”