The music started exactly on time, the soft notes of the piano echoing through the chapel as the doors opened and everyone turned to look at me. I remember gripping my bouquet so tightly that my fingers felt numb, telling myself to breathe, to smile, to focus on the man waiting at the end of the aisle. But as I took the first step forward, my eyes drifted instinctively to the front row.
Three chairs were empty.
They had been reserved for my parents and my younger sister. The little white cards with their names were still tucked neatly into the seats, untouched, like silent reminders that they should have been there. I had tried to prepare myself for that moment ever since my mother called two weeks earlier and said gently, “Sweetheart, your father and I talked about it, and gas prices are just too high right now for us to make the trip.”
