“Dear Aunt Donna,” Mia began, her voice trembling through the ballroom speakers, “I’ve wanted to tell you something for a long time. Something very important that I think you’ve forgotten.”
Donna’s smile faltered.
Not much.
Just enough for me to see it.
She was still standing in the middle of the dance floor with Claire’s bouquet clutched against her chest as though she had won some great prize. A few rose petals had been crushed beneath her fingers. One white ribbon hung loose from the stems, swaying whenever she moved.
Mia looked tiny beneath the chandeliers.
Tiny, but somehow no longer fragile.
Her wheelchair was angled toward the center of the room. Her shoulders were still trembling. Her cheeks were wet. The microphone looked too large in her hands.
For one terrible second, I thought she might lose her nerve.
Then she lifted her chin.
“You always tell everybody that catching the bouquet means you’ll be the next person to get married.”
