At the reception, the room filled with the soft clatter of plates and the low murmur of guests trying very hard to pretend nothing was wrong. I had just lifted my fork when my mother stood up at her table.
“Excuse me,” she said, tapping a glass with her ring. “Everyone, excuse me.”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“I cannot in good conscience sit here and watch my only daughter ruin her life. Robert, we’re leaving.”
Gasps rippled through the tables. My father rose stiffly, his napkin falling to the floor.
“Mom, please,” I said, half-rising. “Don’t do this.”
“I’m doing it for you,” she announced.
They walked toward the door. I felt my chest cave in on itself, every childhood instinct screaming at me to chase them. And then the doors swung open before they could reach them.
He sank slowly into his chair as if his knees had stopped working.
An older man stepped inside, gray-haired and unhurried, wearing a dark coat over a simple suit. He scanned the room until his eyes settled on us.
“Excuse me,” he said politely to the nearest waiter. “May I borrow that microphone?”
The stranger stepped further into the room, the microphone trembling slightly in his weathered hand. He had silver hair and kind eyes, and he wore a simple gray suit.
“My name is Mr. Hanks,” he said gently. “And I would like to ask Diane and Robert to please sit back down. Just for a few minutes.”
I watched my father’s face. Something passed over it that I had never seen before. Not anger. No annoyance. Recognition.
He sank slowly into his chair as if his knees had stopped working. Mom followed, her hand frozen on the strap of her purse.
“There’s something you need to know about your husband.”
“What’s going on?” I whispered to Callum.
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes were fixed on Mr. Hanks, wide and shining.
