Afterward, I took a cab home on my own.
The driver saw how pale I was and asked if I wanted to go to the hospital.
I shook my head.
Because back then I still thought Sophia had only just started at the company, with no one to look after her.
It seemed only right for Donald to show her a little extra care.
Now, thinking back on it.
His thoughtfulness had never been in short supply.
It just never made its way to me, or to my family.
The moment I came close, Donald looked up at me.
"Are your parents all sorted out?"
Then his gaze moved past me, to whoever was behind me, and his brows drew together.
"Why haven't they changed yet?"
My mother stood there stiffly, the black skirt suit draped over her.
My father held her up, one palm clumsily wrapped in tissue.
The tissue was already soaking through red.
Donald acted as if he hadn't seen it, and simply turned to instruct a staff member.
"Move Mr. and Mrs. Coleman's seats farther back."
"It's not really appropriate for them to be at the head table now."
My mother's face went white.
But my father nodded first.
"Fine, fine."
"Anywhere is fine for us."
The staff member came over with a new seating chart.
My parents had been placed in the farthest corner.
Beside them were stacked spare chairs and audio cables.
Guests passing by them frowned and gave them a wide berth.
As if they weren't the bride's parents, here for their daughter's wedding.
As if they were just dead weight shoved into a corner at the last minute.
I looked at that seating chart, my voice very quiet.
"Why the change?"
Donald frowned.
"Your parents' clothes are in that state. If they sit at the head table, they'll get photographed."
"The media's here today."
"I'm thinking of everyone."
Thinking of everyone.
Everyone except my parents.
My father hurried to take my arm.
"Sweetheart, the corner is nice."
"Nice and quiet."
My mother forced a smile too.
"That's right."
"Better than having us photographed and embarrassing you."
Something clamped down hard on my chest.
She hadn't done a single thing wrong.
And yet she had already learned to make herself disappear.
It made me think of last winter.
My mother was in the hospital for a minor operation, and I called Donald to ask if he could come with me to the hospital.
He said he had a meeting at the company that day and couldn't get away.
I ran up and down on my own, paying the bills, picking up the medicine, signing the forms.
By the time I got home that night, two blisters had rubbed raw on the soles of my feet.
But the next day, I saw a photo on Sophia's social media.
In a hospital corridor, Donald sat beside her.
A cup of hot coffee in his hand.
The caption read: "Someone was worried the tooth extraction would hurt, and insisted on staying with me till the very end."
I went and asked him about it.
He only explained, mildly:
"Sophia doesn't have any family in this city."
"You have your mother taken care of."
I stayed silent for a long time that day.
In the end, I still talked myself into it.
He was just too soft-hearted.
But only now do I understand.
It wasn't soft-heartedness.
He simply weighed Sophia's tears as more important than me or my family.
The emcee came over with the program sheet to confirm things with Donald.
When my father saw his own name on it, something seemed to come back to him, and he quickly pulled a sheet of paper from the inner pocket of his suit.
He had folded that paper neatly, smooth.
But the corners had bled and blurred from the red wine earlier.
"I prepared a speech," he said, a little awkwardly.
"If it's still needed, I could say a few words."
His voice grew fainter and fainter.
As if he too knew that he no longer belonged up on that stage.
Sophia suddenly reached out and took the paper from his hand.
