My father refused to look at the wedding cake. He stood by the prime rib station at the Starlight Reception Hall, his face the color of skim milk. His dark suit, the one he had bought for my mother’s funeral five years ago, looked loose around his shoulders.
Around us, two hundred people from Naperville cheered as Emily and David cut the chocolate tier. The forty-five-dollar silver cake server caught the bright overhead lights, gleaming as Emily handed the first slice to her new husband.
I twisted my silver wristlet watch, the metal links cold against my skin. It was the same watch my mother had given me for my high school graduation, and the clasp was starting to wear thin.
“Dad, they are waiting for us to join them at the head table,” I said.
Arthur rubbed his temples, his fingers digging into his graying hair. He did not look at the happy couple.
“I need a minute, Clara,” he said.
“Are you feeling sick?” I asked, looking at his pale cheeks. “You didn’t eat any of the dinner.”
He did not answer me. He just stared at the laminate floor, his mouth set in a hard, flat line.
By quarter past eight, the band started playing a slow waltz. Emily and David spun in the center of the dance floor under a spotlight that turned the room a pale blue.
Emily clutched her neck collarbone, a nervous habit she always had when she was the center of attention, but she was smiling. I smiled too, wanting her to have this perfect moment after everything she had worried about.
My father kept his back turned to the dance floor, focusing entirely on a half-empty glass of water. His hand did not leave the table.
The best man, a tall guy named Marcus, tapped my father on the shoulder and held out a black microphone.
“Your turn, Arthur,” Marcus said, his voice loud over the music. “Time for the father of the bride toast.”
My father pushed the microphone away with the flat of his hand.
“No,” he said. “Pass it to someone else.”
