And then, I took off my veil. It wasn’t dramatic. I didn’t throw it. I just unpinned it and laid it on the cake table. The pearls caught in my hair and pulled. I liked the pain. It reminded me that I was still there; that I wasn’t dreaming.
Mark whispered, “Sophie, if you walk out that door, don’t come back.”
I looked at him. “To where? Your house? Or the one you wanted to gift to your mother?”
He didn’t have an answer.
My mom put her arm around me, and we walked toward the exit. The guests parted like water. Some looked at me with pity, others with pure morbid curiosity. My friends were crying at a table; one of them, Renee, gave me a subtle nod, a closed fist—stay strong.
As I passed the gift table, I saw gold-foiled envelopes, boxes with silk bows, a set of expensive china Diane had insisted on because “in Tribeca, one must entertain properly.”
I stopped. I picked up a gift tag. It read: For your new home.
I felt a hollow ache. There would be no new home. Not with Mark.
Outside, the air was crisp and smelled of rain and pavement. The black SUVs were still lined up. The valet looked at me, unsure if he should open the door or congratulate me. My mom called for our car. I was trembling.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
She didn’t defend herself, which hurt even more. “Because if I had, you would have denied it. You would have protected him.”
“He was my fiancé.”
