“I was just trying to help.”
Later, I saw Kristen speaking to the DJ.
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She had a folded piece of paper in her hand.
“What’s that?” Sophie asked.
I already knew.
A toast.
Kristen had apparently prepared a toast for a bride she’d met once.
Sophie stared at her.
“Mom.”
“Don’t.”
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“I haven’t said anything.”
“Your face has.”
By dinner, Sophie’s anger had become visible from across the room.
I found her near the bar.
“Whatever you’re thinking,” I said, “don’t.”
“I’m thinking Emma hasn’t eaten half her dinner because she keeps dealing with Dad’s wife.”
“Emma can speak for herself.”
Sophie looked at me.
“Can she?”
That irritated me.
“Of course she can.”
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Sophie didn’t answer.
She just looked toward the head table.
Emma was smiling at something Tom had said.
Perfectly calm.
Perfectly gracious.
Just as she’d been at every birthday.
Every graduation.
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Every Christmas dinner.
Every family event since the divorce.
I’d always been proud of that.
Emma was mature.
Thoughtful.
Easy.
Before every family event, she sent little texts.
“Dinner’s at six, Mom.”
“Dad’s coming too.”
“Sophie, please be nice.”
I’d always thought it was Emma being Emma.
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At 25, she could walk into a room containing both her divorced parents and somehow make everyone behave.
What I hadn’t asked myself was why she’d become so good at it.
The toasts began after dinner.
Michael’s father spoke.
Then the best man.
Then Sophie.
I spent her entire speech waiting for trouble.
It never came.
Sophie talked about sharing a bedroom with Emma.
Stealing her sweaters.
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Calling her from college whenever she was homesick.
She made us laugh.
She made Emma cry.
Then she sat down.
I actually exhaled.
Maybe she’d listened to me.
Maybe we’d get through the night after all.
