Happy.
Our younger daughter, Sophie, 19, cried harder than I did.
Tom attended alone.
At least, I thought he had.
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It wasn’t until the reception that I saw him standing at the entrance to the ballroom.
Beside him was Kristen.
His wife of four months.
I’d met Kristen twice.
Emma had met her once, briefly, at a birthday dinner.
Sophie had never met her.
Tom hadn’t mentioned bringing her.
Not once.
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Kristen wore a pale blue dress with one hand linked through Tom’s arm.
I looked toward Emma.
Her smile disappeared.
Maybe half a second.
Then it returned.
That was Emma.
She walked over.
Kissed her father on the cheek.
Hugged Kristen.
“I’m glad you made it,” she said.
If you didn’t know my daughter, you’d have believed her.
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I knew her.
Her shoulders had gone rigid.
Sophie appeared beside me.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“Don’t.”
“He brought her?”
“Sophie.”
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“Emma barely knows her.”
“It’s Emma’s wedding. Let Emma handle it.”
Sophie looked at her sister across the room.
Emma was already showing Kristen where to sit.
“That’s the problem,” Sophie muttered. “Emma handles everything.”
I should have listened more carefully to that.
Kristen didn’t exactly make herself invisible.
When the photographer called for the bride’s parents, Tom stepped forward.
Kristen came with him.
The photographer lowered his camera.
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“Just Mom and Dad for this one.”
Kristen immediately started to step away.
Tom touched her arm.
“She’s fine.”
Kristen glanced at Emma.
Almost as if checking.
Emma hesitated.
Then smiled.
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“It’s fine.”
Click.
Sophie was standing beside me.
I heard her whisper, “Unbelievable.”
When the wedding planner was checking place cards, Kristen told her Tom should be seated closer to the bride.
Emma overheard.
“It’s fine where he is,” she said.
Kristen smiled.
“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.
