Still, in the peculiar architecture of our family, it felt right.
The music started.
We walked.
Halfway down the aisle, Rebecca waited.
She wore a dark green dress.
Her eyes were already full of tears.
Emily stopped.
Reached out.
Rebecca took her other arm.
For several steps—
we walked together.
The woman who gave birth to Emily.
The woman who raised her.
No contest.
No replacement.
At the front, Catherine kissed Emily's cheek.
Then we sat.
Zane's photograph was not on an empty chair.
Emily did not want death represented as a vacancy.
Instead, inside her bouquet was a tiny strip of fabric from the hospital-bandage wedding ring Zane and I had kept from a vow renewal years earlier.
Private.
Enough.
During the reception, Catherine approached me.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“No.”
She laughed.
“Better.”
We drank champagne.
Rebecca danced with Emily.
I watched.
Jealousy came.
Small.
Sharp.
I did not pretend otherwise.
