They say weddings are supposed to weave a family closer together. But sometimes, they just quietly hold up a mirror and show you exactly how far apart you’ve drifted. I had spent the morning carefully slipping into the blush-pink dress I had been saving in the back of my closet for years.
Before that, I had been in the kitchen, mixing up a batch of the banana bread he used to devour as a kid. I even took the time to press the old knit cardigan with the tiny pearl buttons—the one he once told me made me look like one of those perfect mothers from black-and-white television shows. But the moment I stepped into the sprawling wedding hall and realized no one had bothered to save me a seat anywhere near him, I knew the truth.
Something deep inside my chest shifted out of place right then and there. And that quiet little fracture would end up altering the course of everything. Upper Michigan has a specific kind of quiet when spring rolls around.
It isn’t a peaceful silence, but rather the heavy, hollow quiet of being completely forgotten. My house sits tucked away beside a glass-still lake, wrapped in towering pine trees and decades of memories. I live entirely alone now.
My husband, Mark, passed away four winters ago, leaving an emptiness that the cold air always seems to find. Our son, Owen, makes the drive up to visit less and less these days, but I always try to understand. Young folks have their own lives to build, their own paths to pave.
