On the second proof, the line had been replaced entirely by a note requesting guests to join the groom’s parents, Janice and Paul, for the reception.
My name did not appear anywhere on the drafts.
I turned the sheets over, searching the margins for a pencil mark or a correction note.
There was only a small green sticky note from the printer asking for final approval by five that afternoon.
“Is there a signature required?” the delivery driver asked, tapping his electronic stylus against his clipboard.
I signed the pad without looking at the screen.
Brenda, my supervisor, leaned over the partition with her ceramic coffee mug.
She had worked at the credit union for fifteen years and knew every family in the county.
“Is that the stationery for the big day?” Brenda asked, squinting at the gold foil.
“Just some proofs,” I said, sliding the papers back into the envelope.
“They must be spending a fortune,” Brenda said, taking a slow sip.
“That paper alone costs more than my monthly mortgage payment.”
I did not reply to her.
