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.
Simone looked at her as if she desperately wanted to say something—something important, urgent, vital. Her lips moved soundlessly, and Doris almost read the word “Mom…” forming there, a silent plea visible only to someone who knew her face as well as her own reflection. But then Preston turned Simone toward him with firm hands, kissed her again for the cameras, and the moment slipped away like water through fingers.
The connection broke. The noise rushed back. Simone’s face went blank again, that painted smile returning.
Doris stood with the bouquet in her hands, unsure what to do with it, feeling suddenly conspicuous and awkward. The roses’ fragrance was beginning to give her a headache, a dull throb starting behind her eyes. She tried to adjust them, shifting her grip, arranging the stems more comfortably, looking for a better way to hold the unwieldy bundle.
That was when she noticed something white between the tightly packed flowers. An edge of paper was sticking out between the stems, barely visible among the greenery and baby’s breath. It must be a note from the florist, Doris thought at first.
Or maybe a little wish from the bridesmaids, some sweet message about luck and love. She carefully pinched the edge of the paper between her fingers and pulled. A twice-folded piece of plain printer paper slid into her hand, slightly crumpled as if it had been stuffed there hastily.
The paper was warm from being pressed against her palm. Doris unfolded it, her fingers moving slowly. And froze, her breath catching in her throat.
The letters were uneven and shaky, as if written by someone in a hurry—or in fear. The handwriting slanted at odd angles, the pressure inconsistent. Only four words were written there, but they hit Doris with such force that it felt like the ground had dropped out from under her feet.
Mom, save me. The handwriting was Simone’s. Doris would have known it anywhere—the same rounded letters, the same characteristic slant she remembered from school notebooks and birthday cards and grocery lists on the refrigerator.
Only now the letters were crooked, the pen strokes uneven and desperate. At the end of the phrase, the ink had bled slightly, as if a drop of water—or a tear—had fallen there, smudging the final letter. Doris looked up sharply, her eyes scanning the room with sudden intensity.
The guests continued to celebrate, oblivious to the silent drama unfolding. The band kept playing a light jazz tune that felt jarringly cheerful. Waiters circled with trays of canapés and petit fours.
People were laughing, drinking, taking selfies. No one was paying attention to her, just an ordinary mother of the bride holding a bouquet, probably touched by the sentimental gesture. No one saw the paper trembling in her hand.
Doris squeezed the note in her fist and pressed her hand against her chest, hiding the paper in the folds of her dress, her heart hammering so loudly she was sure someone must hear it. Her ears rang with a high-pitched whine and her mouth went dry. Her hands were shaking.
She looked back toward the platform where Simone and Preston were now posing for the photographer, his arm around her shoulders, both of them smiling perfectly for the camera. Simone wore the same painted smile, but now, behind that smile, Doris saw what she should have seen all along—a silent scream, a desperate plea for help that had been there the whole time, hidden just beneath the surface. Save me.
What did it mean? Save her from what? From whom?
From the handsome, well-off groom in the expensive tuxedo who was currently wrapping an arm around her shoulders and kissing her temple for the cameras? From this entire luxurious fairy tale that everyone around them was admiring, snapping pictures of, and posting to Instagram with captions about #goals and #blessed and #weddingoftheyear? Doris tried to gather her thoughts, forcing herself to think clearly despite the panic rising in her throat.
Panic wouldn’t help Simone. Hysteria wouldn’t save her. She needed to think, to act—but how?
What could she possibly do in a room full of two hundred people, surrounded by Preston’s family and their money and their power? Should she walk up to Simone right there, in front of all the guests and the Sturgis family, grab her daughter’s hand, and drag her out? She imagined the scene—marching up the steps to the platform, shouting that the wedding was over, declaring that her daughter was leaving with her right now, this instant.
A scandal, a horror, a public disgrace that would be filmed and shared and talked about
