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But she’d been very clear.
No involvement in family photographs unless Emma asked.
No changing arrangements.
No toast.
“I told him I barely know you,” Emma said to Kristen. “I said I wanted you to feel welcome, but I didn’t want to pretend we had a relationship we don’t have.”
Kristen looked horrified.
“He told me the opposite.”
Emma closed her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
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Kristen shook her head.
“I’m sorry.”
And suddenly I understood every strange moment from earlier.
Kristen stepping into the photograph.
The seating chart.
The folded toast.
She hadn’t been forcing herself into Emma’s wedding.
She’d thought she’d been invited into it.
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Sophie looked at Tom.
“So you’ve been lying to both of them.”
Tom’s jaw tightened.
“This isn’t the place for this.”
Sophie gave a short laugh.
“Of course you’d say that.”
“Sophie,” Emma said.
But Sophie was staring at her father.
“This is all Dad’s fault.”
“No.”
Emma said it quietly.
Still, everyone heard.
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Sophie turned.
“No?”
“Dad did this.”
Emma gestured toward Kristen.
Then she looked at Sophie.
“You did this.”
Finally, her eyes found me.
“And Mom does it too.”
My stomach dropped.
“Emma—”
“Do you know how many texts I send before every family event?”
Nobody answered.
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“Every birthday.”
Her voice shook.
“Every graduation.”
She looked at Tom.
“Every Christmas.”
Then Sophie.
“Every single time.”
She started listing them.
“Dad will be there at six.”
“Mom, Dad might bring someone.”
“Sophie, please don’t start anything.”
“Dad, Uncle Daniel is coming. Don’t make it weird.”
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She looked at all of us.
“I’ve been doing this since I was 17.”
Seventeen.
Suddenly I saw her there again.
Sitting at our kitchen table after Tom moved out.
Asking whether Sophie knew.
Asking whether Christmas would be different.
Asking whether Dad would still come to her school awards night.
