Chapter 3 - NO MORE SMILING FOR THE CAMERA
I stared at Martha’s message.
For years, destroying the family had meant anything that made her uncomfortable.
Not answering a call.
Spending Thanksgiving with my mother.
Buying a couch without asking her opinion.
Apparently, it now included opening an envelope.
“Open it,” I said.
Ruth studied me.
“Are you sure you want to do this tonight?”
“No. But I’m tired of everyone else deciding what I can handle.”
Inside were copies of letters, a business card, and a handwritten note from Nick’s grandmother, Rose.
Nick recognized the handwriting immediately.
He pressed his thumb against the bottom corner.
Grandma Rose had died fourteen months earlier.
For the last two years of her life, I had brought her groceries on Tuesdays.
She liked canned peaches, detective shows, and telling me that Nick had been a terrible liar since kindergarten.
The note was short.
Nick—
The house is yours.
You do not owe your mother the proceeds.
Please speak with Elaine before signing anything.
Love,
Grandma
The business card belonged to Elaine Porter, the lawyer who had handled Rose’s estate.
Nick looked up.
“Mom said Elaine retired.”
“She hasn’t,” Ruth replied.
Something cold moved through me.
Three days before the wedding, Martha had brought a folder to our apartment.
She called it housekeeping.
A few signatures to make selling the house easier after our honeymoon.
We had been exhausted.
There were seating charts across the kitchen table.
My dress needed one final alteration.
Nick had signed.
I had told him we should read everything.
Martha had laughed.
“Sweetheart, it’s my mother’s house. I think I understand the paperwork.”
Now Nick stood so quickly his chair scraped the floor.
“I need that folder.”
“Not tonight,” I said.
He turned.
“Those papers—”
“Will still exist tomorrow.”
“My mother could—”
“Nick.”
He stopped.
I pointed toward the closed door.
“Our wedding is out there.”
His face changed.
Not because he had forgotten.
Because he finally understood that there were two emergencies in the room, and I was one of them.
Lena found the restaurant’s emergency sewing kit.
A server brought warm water and a towel.
In the bathroom, Lena carefully removed the flowers still caught in the uneven ends.
I looked in the mirror.
My hair had reached my waist that morning.
Now one side barely touched my jaw.
“Do you want to leave?” she asked.
I thought of Martha running.
Of the empty dance floor.
Of everything I had paid for with extra shifts and careful saving.
“No.”
When we returned, Nick was waiting beside the microphone.
He didn’t pick it up until I nodded.
“What happened to my wife was not a tradition,” he said.
“It was cruel. Nobody here needs to pretend otherwise.”
May you like
Then a voice came from the doorway.
“Oh, Nick. You have no idea what she’s done.”
