Inside, the chairs were arranged in curved rows facing a floral arch at the far end of the room.
An usher, one of my brother-in-law’s college friends, walked us partway down the aisle and then gestured vaguely to the left side.
“Families on this side,” he said.
We sat down.
The ceremony was beautiful.
I cried a little, which surprised me.
My new sister-in-law walked in on her father’s arm, and she was radiant in the specific way that happens when someone is exactly where they want to be.
My brother-in-law’s face did something I had never seen my husband’s face do.
I filed that observation away somewhere quiet, and kept smiling.
The reception was where it started.
The room had been arranged with round tables, each seating eight, each with a small card with a table number on a silver stand.
We found our escort cards at the entrance.
My husband’s card said table 3.
Mine said table 11.
I stood there with a card in each hand for a moment.
My husband looked at his, looked at mine, then he said, “There’s probably a mistake.”
I said, “Probably.”
We went to find my mother-in-law.
She was standing near the bar with a glass of white wine and 3 of her sisters, laughing at something.
When she saw us approaching, her expression did that thing it always did, a brief recalibration like a camera autofocusing on a subject it hadn’t expected.
Then the smile settled in, wide and warm and entirely performed.
“You two, doesn’t everything look just stunning?”
My husband showed her both cards.
