“What a lovely couple,” exclaimed a nearby aunt in a purple dress and a feathered fascinator that bobbed when she moved. “Real love, the kind you read about in romance novels. You just can’t look away from them.”
Doris wanted to object, to say that something was wrong, that her mother’s intuition was screaming alarm bells so loud they drowned out the music.
But she kept silent, pressing her lips together. Who would listen to her? Everyone else saw the ideal picture: the handsome millionaire groom, the charming bride, the lavish Texas wedding with all the trimmings.
How could anyone be unhappy in a fairy tale like this? What kind of ungrateful woman would throw this away? The dance ended, and the guests applauded enthusiastically.
Preston dipped Simone in a dramatic flourish and then pulled her into a long, theatrical kiss while cameras flashed and phones recorded from every angle, capturing the moment for posterity and Instagram. When he finally pulled away, Doris saw Simone subtly wipe her lips with the back of her hand. It was a fast, almost imperceptible movement, the kind of gesture you make when something tastes bad or feels wrong, but Doris saw it.
And everything inside her turned ice-cold, a chill that started in her chest and spread through her entire body. She remembered the last few months before the wedding with new eyes, seeing patterns she’d missed before. Simone had been visiting less and less, the gap between their meetings stretching from days to weeks.
They used to call almost every day, chatting about everything—work frustrations, friend drama, trivial things like traffic on the interstate or a funny thing that happened at a Starbucks drive-thru. Then the conversations became shorter and strained, each one feeling more forced than the last. When Doris asked how she was, Simone would answer in monosyllables, her voice flat.
“Fine, Mom, just tired. The wedding, you know. So much to get done.
So many decisions to make.”
One day, Doris had called her daughter just to chat, wanting to invite her over for the weekend to bake a pie together like they used to when Simone was in high school, when they would spend Saturday afternoons making apple pie and talking about everything and nothing. Simone spoke softly, almost in a whisper, as if afraid someone might overhear. “Mom, I can’t right now.
Preston’s home. We’re busy planning something. I’ll call you back later.”
But she never called back.
When Doris called again two days later, worried and missing her daughter, Simone’s voice had been sharp and frantic, an edge to it Doris had never heard before. “Mom, why are you calling so often? I’m an adult.
I have my own life. I’ll call you when I have time. Please stop checking up on me.”
Doris had felt a sting of hurt then, sharp and unexpected.
They didn’t speak for a whole week after that, a silence that stretched painfully between them. Then Simone called first, apologized profusely, and said she was just stressed from wedding preparations and that her nerves were shot. Doris had understood and forgiven her immediately, but the residue of unease remained, a nagging worry she couldn’t quite shake.
Now, from her spot at the edge of the reception tent, Doris watched how Preston didn’t leave Simone’s side for a single second. When her friends—Kendra and Sierra—came over to congratulate the bride, laughing and hugging her, he stood right there, listening to their conversation and interjecting with comments, inserting himself into every exchange. When Simone headed toward the drink table, he followed close behind like a shadow.
When she suggested stepping away to touch up her makeup, he took her hand and said something that made Simone nod quickly and stay put, abandoning the idea. A thoughtful groom, the guests would say. A caring husband who doesn’t want to let his wife out of his sight for even a minute, who wants to share every moment of this special day.
How romantic, how devoted. But Doris saw something else in it—control, surveillance, an invisible leash that kept Simone tethered to his side no matter what she wanted to do. She tried to push the thoughts away, telling herself she was imagining things, working herself into a panic over nothing.
Maybe she was overthinking, letting her own bad marriage color her perception of her daughter’s. After all, they had just gotten married only hours ago. Of course the groom didn’t want to let his bride out of his sight.
That was normal, even romantic in its way. Newlyweds were supposed to be inseparable. But when Doris looked at her daughter’s face again, really looked beyond the makeup and the smile, her heart skipped a beat.
Simone stood there, clutching the bouquet of white roses to her chest like a shield, looking past the people, past the luxurious setting, past all the splendor and celebration. In her eyes, Doris saw something she had only seen once before, years ago. When Simone was twelve, she had come home bruised and shaken after being bullied by a group of classmates who had cornered her after school.
The girl had been silent then, not crying, just sitting at the kitchen table with an absent, hollow gaze that frightened Doris more than tears would have. It had taken Doris two hours to coax the truth out of her, sitting beside her and holding her hand until Simone finally felt safe enough to speak. The same look was in Simone’s eyes now—the look of a person enduring something unbearable, holding on with all her strength, but perilously close to breaking.
The look of someone who had learned to hide their fear behind a practiced smile. The emcee’s voice cut through the music, amplified and cheerful. “And now our beautiful bride will toss the bouquet!
All the single ladies, please come to the dance floor and get ready!”
Simone’s friends ran over, laughing and squealing, scrambling for position like they’d seen in countless American rom-coms and viral videos. About fifteen young women clustered in the center of the dance floor, reaching out their hands, nudging each other playfully and giggling, each one hoping to catch the bouquet and the promise of future marriage it supposedly carried. Doris remained standing on the sidelines, one hand resting on a nearby chair for support.
At forty-six, she had no business shoving her way into a crowd of twenty-somethings to catch a bouquet, no interest in the superstition or the spectacle. Simone stepped onto a small raised platform at the edge of the dance floor and turned her back to the crowd, the traditional pose for the bouquet toss. Preston stood beside her, wrapping his arms around her waist possessively and leaning in to murmur something in her ear, his mouth close to her skin.
Simone nodded mechanically, her movements stiff, then lifted the bouquet over her head with both hands. The guests began the countdown, their voices building in volume and enthusiasm. “One… two… three!”
The bouquet soared into the air in a graceful arc, spinning as it flew over the dance floor—and sailed nowhere near where the girls were standing with their hands outstretched.
It flew over their heads, past several rows of tables, past guests holding champagne flutes and dessert plates, and dropped directly toward Doris like a guided missile. She instinctively reached out and caught the bundle of roses, feeling the stems thump softly against her palms, the weight of it heavier than she expected. The blooms were tightly bound with a satin ribbon, the petals cool and smooth against her skin.
The guests laughed good-naturedly at the unexpected trajectory. Someone applauded. A few people whistled.
“Oh, look! The mother of the bride caught it!” someone called out cheerfully. “That’s good luck,” someone else said, chuckling.
“It means Doris is going to get married soon, too! A second chance at romance!”
Doris offered a confused smile, pressing the bouquet to herself, unsure how to respond to the attention. The roses were heavy, tightly bound with the white satin ribbon that dug slightly into her fingers.
Their scent was thick and almost suffocating, cloying rather than sweet, making it hard to breathe deeply. She raised her gaze to the platform and met her daughter’s eyes across the distance of the dance floor. For just a moment, the crowd seemed to fade away, all the noise and movement dimming to nothing.
