The ceremony was not perfect.
My voice cracked during my vows. Ethan cried before I did. Paige sniffled through half the prayer. A toddler in the third row yelled, “Why is everybody sad?” and made the entire church laugh.
But it was real.
More real than the perfect wedding I thought I wanted.
When Ethan and I turned to face our guests as husband and wife, the sunlight broke through the stained-glass windows and fell across Paige’s dress.
White, blue, gold.
A dress that had entered the chapel as a weapon had become a confession.
At the reception, people were careful at first.
They did not know whether to congratulate me or apologize.
My aunt Margaret was the first to approach.
“That was very mature of you,” she said.
I almost laughed.
Mature.
A word people use when they benefit from your pain but don’t want to name it.
