Chapter 3
The bride's father — a broad man named Gerald Whitmore, silver-haired and accustomed to every room bending toward him — tightened his grip on the groom's arm.
"Young man, I don't know what this is," Gerald said, his voice dropped to a warning register, "but I need you to think very carefully about what you're doing right now."
The groom — Derrick — looked down at the hand on his arm.
Then he looked up at Gerald.
"Let go of me."
Gerald released him.
Not because he wanted to.
Because something in Derrick's face told him it was the wiser choice.
Derrick turned back to his mother.
She was swaying slightly.
Her legs had carried her as far as they could.
"Somebody get her a chair," Derrick said to the room.
His voice was not loud.
It didn't need to be.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Then an older gentleman near the third row — someone from Derrick's side, an uncle named Raymond — stood up and dragged his own seat forward without a word.
Derrick's mother, whose name was Celestine, lowered herself into the chair slowly, both hands pressed to her knees.
She looked around the ballroom.
The chandeliers.
The white roses.
The hundreds of guests in their finest clothes.
She had never been in a room like this in her life.
"Baby," she said softly, "I didn't come to cause trouble."
"I know, Mom."
"I just needed you to know I was still here." Her voice broke on the last word.
Derrick crouched in front of her, still holding the photograph.
From the altar, the bride's heels clicked sharply against the marble as she descended.
Her name was Vanessa Whitmore, and she had planned this wedding for fourteen months.
The flowers had been flown in from the Netherlands.
The dress had been fitted six times.
May you like
The guest list had been curated with the same precision her father applied to business acquisitions.
She stopped three feet from Derrick and his mother.
