Then, in a light tone that didn’t match her expression, she said the best wedding gift I could give her was to disappear from her life.
For a second, I thought I’d misunderstood. My hands froze. The room suddenly felt smaller, the air harder to breathe.
Gavin appeared behind her then—handsome, polished, always carrying that rehearsed charm. He rested a hand on her shoulder like he owned the moment. He told me not to take it personally, that big events bring stress, that I tend to misinterpret things—as if I were a child needing correction.
I stood slowly, my heart pounding, but not with the same hurt I used to feel. Something sharper had taken its place. I told Evelyn I didn’t understand. She let out a quiet laugh, irritated, and said I always complicated things, that I brought heaviness into moments meant to be joyful. She said it was her time now—her chance to build a life free from old grief and responsibilities.
Responsibilities.
That word hit harder than anything else.
Because I remembered another time she had spoken like that. I remembered the small condo in Racine that had belonged to our mother—the one I spent two years renovating after college, pouring in every dollar I saved from freelance work. I had given it to her as a gift when I was twenty-nine. She had cried, saying she wanted independence but still wanted to stay close to family.
