Not because it gave me some satisfying victory over my mother-in-law.
I love it because Ethan’s face looks completely serious.
His hands are wrapped around that folded piece of paper.
Dad’s cufflinks are shining beneath his sleeves.
And behind him, every person in Cedarbrook Chapel is listening.
The photograph Margaret once said she never wanted became the photograph she chose to hang where every visitor could see it.
But the part that matters most is something Ethan said after the wedding.
We were standing outside the chapel.
He had loosened his tie.
He was eating cake before the official cake cutting because apparently being the bride’s brother came with privileges.
I asked:
“Were you nervous?”
“Yes.”
“How nervous?”
“A lot.”
“You didn’t look nervous.”
He shrugged.
“I practiced.”
I laughed.
Then he looked toward the chapel doors.
For a moment, his expression became serious.
“Dad would have done it better.”
My heart tightened.
“No.”
Ethan looked at me.
“He would.”
I shook my head.
“Dad would have done it differently.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
He thought about that.
Then asked:
“Was I good?”
I took his hand.
“You were exactly who I wanted.”
He smiled.
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