On the morning of the wedding, Claire sat beside her in the guest room and fixed her hair with the careful, deliberate tenderness of someone who knows they are doing something they will remember for the rest of their lives. Helen slipped a small photo of Daniel from her purse and tucked it inside the neckline of her dress, against her chest.
She walked through the venue in the final hour the way she always moved through spaces that mattered—slowly, touching things lightly, checking on people. She stopped at Daniel’s empty chair and straightened the ribbon. When she turned to go, she caught a glimpse of Richard standing in the far doorway watching her with an unreadable expression.