In some versions, Paige stormed out.
In others, she screamed at me, accused me of humiliating her, and turned my wedding into exactly the disaster everyone expected.
But I never imagined silence.
I never imagined my sister looking small.
Not dramatic. Not angry. Not jealous.
Small.
Like a little girl who had dressed up in someone else’s confidence and suddenly realized it did not fit.
Pastor Reynolds stepped back, giving her space.
Ethan squeezed my hand.
“Clara,” he whispered, “you don’t have to keep going.”
I looked at Paige.
Then I looked at the empty chair in the front row where Mom’s blue scarf rested like a folded piece of sky.
“Yes,” I whispered. “I do.”
Paige swallowed hard. Her eyes moved across the letter again.
Then, in a voice so thin it barely reached the second row, she began to read.
“My sweet Paige, if you are reading this, it means you are hurting louder than you are loving.”
