Chapter 2: The Aisle Walked Alone
I still went through with everything. I finalized the seating chart. I met with the florist. I smiled through my bridal shower even while relatives asked careful questions about whether my parents were “coming around.” On the morning of the wedding, my maid of honor helped zip me into my dress while my phone stayed silent. No message from my mother. No apology. No last-minute change of heart.
When I walked down the aisle, I did it alone.
The vineyard stretched out under a clear California sky. Rows of guests rose as the music began. I felt every step in the silk of the gown and the careful placement of each foot on the path that had been raked smooth that morning. Ethan stood at the end in a black tuxedo, his eyes locked on mine with the kind of steady focus that made the empty seats less able to pull me sideways. We had practiced the processional twice. Neither practice had included the visual of the two chairs in the front row remaining vacant while everyone else stood.
May you like
I did not look at those chairs for long. Looking too long would have turned the walk into something else. I kept my gaze on Ethan and on the space just above the guests’ heads where the light came through the trees. The vows were the ones we had written. The rings were the ones we had chosen. The kiss landed to the sound of applause that was real and warm and still somehow incomplete. When we turned to walk back up the aisle as husband and wife, I felt the weight of the two empty seats behind us like a second set of eyes that had chosen not to be present.
At the reception, I told myself I would hold it together until the night was over. I laughed when expected. I thanked guests. I cut the cake. I danced. I did not beg. I did not cry.
