The ballroom was all soft gold and cream roses and carefully staged abundance. The kind of wedding that tries to look effortless by spending obscene amounts of money hiding the labor. Candles floating in glass cylinders. White orchids spilling over mirrored stands. A string quartet during cocktails, then a band tucked discreetly behind a floral wall. Five hundred guests in tuxedos, silk, diamonds, tailored dresses, voices polished by money and habit.
I stood near the back because old instincts remain in the body long after you no longer need them.
No one noticed me at first.
I preferred it that way.
From where I stood, I could see Bianca moving through the room in a fitted gown that made her look exactly the way she had always imagined she would one day look: worshipped. Diane floated beside her in icy blue chiffon, all gracious smiles and social air-kisses. My father moved more stiffly, older now, shoulders rounded by years and choices, but unmistakably himself. He laughed once at something a guest said and I felt a strange hollow place open under my ribs—not longing exactly, but recognition of how completely a person can continue living after making you disappear.