She came back holding a set of clothes, her eyes still red.
"Ma'am, I found you something clean to wear."
"Why don't you change into this."
She said it kindly enough.
But when the fabric unfolded, the color drained from my mother's face.
It was one of the hotel's spare black skirt suits.
Stiff fabric, the hem still creased.
And pinned to the chest was a staff name tag no one had bothered to take off.
Sophia acted as if she didn't notice, her voice soft.
"Just make do with this for now, ma'am."
"The photos are mainly of the couple anyway."
"They won't show you clearly."
My mother held the clothes, her fingers slowly tightening around them.
The formal gown she was wearing today, she had bought two months ago.
To save money, she'd gone a whole month without buying a single new thing for the table.
Every night she tried it on in front of the mirror.
Trying it on, she'd ask me,
"Sweetie, is this too bright on me?"
"Will I look less proper than the groom's family from the city?"
I'd laughed at her back then.
"Mom, you look the best of anyone."
She'd been so happy the corners of her eyes crinkled.
But now she held that old hotel uniform and said, quietly,
"Okay."
"As long as it fits."
My eyes suddenly burned.
Donald, though, looked as if he could finally breathe.
"Sophia's so thoughtful."
Then he looked at me.
"And stop with that cold face."
"You made Sophia cry just now."
"When we go back out, you're apologizing to her in front of everyone first."
Sophia pressed her lips together and said in a small voice,
"Donald, don't push Paula."
"I know she doesn't like me."
"I only wanted to help you two have a good wedding."
Donald's voice went gentle at once.
"I know. Don't let it get to you."
Standing there, I suddenly found I was too tired even to sneer.
My mother lowered her head and said nothing.
But I saw her tears fall onto that black skirt suit.
The stiff fabric drank them up almost instantly.
Not a trace left behind.
A strange calm came over me.
So from the very start, my parents had never been taken seriously at this wedding.
I took out my phone and sent the wedding planner a message.
"Don't wait on the program."
"When the ceremony starts, play the thing I gave you."
The reply came quickly.
"Are you sure?"
I looked at Donald's back as he bent to soothe Sophia.
Then at my parents' eyes, red from holding it all in.
Slowly, I typed two words.
"I'm sure."
When I came back to the hall, Sophia was sitting in the bridal lounge.
Her eyes were red, a cup of warm water in her hands.
Donald stood in front of her, bent slightly at the waist, wiping her tears with a tissue.
"Sophia, don't cry."
"None of what happened today is your fault."
There was a first-aid kit on the table beside them.
My father still had shards of porcelain in his palm.
The blood on his knee hadn't stopped either.
But that first-aid kit had never once been carried off to some back room.
Sophia only had to cry.
And Donald ached for her as if she'd suffered some terrible wrong.
Standing a little way off, I suddenly remembered something from years ago.
The night of the company gala, running a high fever, I'd waited outside the hotel for Donald to come get me.
He'd said he would come once the meeting ended.
But I waited until the early hours, and what came instead was a message from him,
"Sophia had too much to drink."
"She's new at the company, and it isn't safe for a girl on her own, so I'm taking her home first."
I was burning up so badly I could barely stand.
And still I replied,
"Okay. Get home safe."
