My nine-year-old had apparently taken one sentence my mother had used against me.
“Then Amelia picked up her candle instead of lighting it,” she recalled. “Ryan told her they needed it for the ceremony. She said, ‘It’s mine,’ and walked out with it.”
That got me moving again.
“Where is she?”
“Garden bench. Ryan’s with her.”
I pushed through the doors.
“Where is she?”
Outside, I found Amelia sitting with her white candle in both hands.
Ryan was beside her.
He still had his suit jacket on.
The boutonniere on his chest looked absurdly cheerful.
Neither of them noticed me at first.
“You said you were okay with the candle,” Ryan said.
“You said you were okay with the candle.”
Amelia stared at it.
“You asked if I understood it, Dad.”
Ryan went quiet.
“That’s not the same thing,” she added.
Ryan was saying, “Why didn’t you tell me you felt like this?”
Amelia stared at the candle.
“You didn’t ask.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you felt like this?”
Ryan frowned.
“I ask you things all the time.”
“You ask if school was good.”
He went quiet.
“You ask if I like Aunt Lina’s apartment.”
Another pause.
“You ask if dinner tastes good.”
Ryan looked down.
Amelia’s voice got smaller.
“You don’t ask if I’m mad.”
“I ask you things all the time.”
I stopped several feet away.
Ryan finally said, “Are you mad at me?”
Amelia nodded.
Just once.
Ryan looked at her for a long time.
He took a breath and nodded once. “Okay.”
I had never heard him answer her like that before.
No excuse.
No “someday you’ll understand.”
Just okay.
I had never heard him answer her like that before.
Then Amelia saw me.
“Mom!”
She dropped the candle onto the bench and ran.
I knelt as she crashed into me.
“Mom, I ruined Dad’s wedding.”
“No, baby.”
