There is a little laugh after that, the kind that is meant to be private and always somehow lands where it is meant to wound.
You sit down before your legs can betray the trembling in them.
Your fingers find the worn fold of your purse and hold on. For a moment, you think of leaving. The idea slips into your mind so quickly it almost feels like instinct. You could stand now, step back outside, and let them think whatever they want. Marco would be angry later, hurt even, but maybe it would be easier than sitting here while strangers in polished shoes decide what kind of mother belongs at the wedding of a successful son.
Then the organ begins.
Everyone rises.
