want to help.
A real sister.
Lauren had heard that phrase so many times it had become a leash.
Beside the envelope was a small jewelry box wrapped in tissue paper. A necklace and earrings. Pearls, delicate and simple, the kind Emily had once said she loved when they were girls looking through Grandma’s old jewelry drawer.
Lauren had remembered.
She always remembered.
By the time she kissed Ava on the forehead and whispered that Mrs. Carter from next door would come over soon, the sky was beginning to pale.
Ava stirred and opened one eye.
You look pretty, Mommy.
Lauren smiled, and for the first time that morning, it was real.
Thank you, bug.
Is Aunt Emily going to be nice today?
The question landed gently, but it landed deep.
Lauren smoothed Ava’s hair back from her face.
It is her wedding day. I think everyone will try their best.
It was not an answer.
Ava was old enough to notice.
The venue was outside Nashville, a little over three hours away. Lauren drove through stretches of highway lined with trees and gas stations and churches with signs promising grace to strangers.
She thought about turning around twice.
The first time was when her mother texted to ask if she was wearing something appropriate. The second was when Emily sent a message asking if Lauren could help set up before the ceremony because the planner was apparently overwhelmed.
Lauren could have ignored both.
Instead, she replied that she was on her way.
That was the old reflex in her. Be useful. Be easy. Do not make anyone regret including you.
When she arrived, the venue looked like something from a magazine. White columns, wide windows, soft green lawns, and flowers arranged so perfectly they seemed less grown than purchased into obedience.
Inside, people were already rushing around with clipboards and garment bags.
Lauren barely had time to set down her purse before someone handed her a box of programs.
She folded. She arranged. She tied ribbons around chairs with fingers that had once cleaned rifles in the dark. She carried centerpieces. She found safety pins. She fixed a loose strap on a bridesmaid’s dress because nobody else knew what to do.
No one asked how her drive was.
No one said thank you.
When her mother finally saw her, she paused in the doorway with a glass of champagne in her hand, looking Lauren up and down as if inspecting a delivery.
Good, her mother said. You look appropriate.
Lauren felt the word strike her, but she smiled anyway.
Appropriate had always been the best compliment her mother could manage for her.
Emily appeared a few minutes later, glowing under layers of makeup, hairspray, and attention. She stood surrounded by bridesmaids in pale pink dresses, laughing as one of them dabbed at her eyes and another adjusted her veil.
Lauren caught her gaze from across the room.
Emily lifted her fingers in a small wave.
It was not cold exactly.
It was worse.
It was distant.
The kind of wave someone gives to an old neighbor they are not sure they want to speak to.
Lauren waved back, then pretended to straighten a stack of programs so no one would see her face fall.
She told herself Emily was
