That chair wasn’t officially for anyone.
But in my head, it belonged to my dad.
My father, Richard, had died four years earlier.
A heart attack. Quick and unexpected.
He had been 62.
I had spoken to him on a Tuesday evening about replacing the brakes on my car.
On Wednesday morning, my mother called me screaming so hard I couldn’t understand her.
He was gone before I reached the hospital.
I didn’t talk about him much during the wedding planning.
Claire knew I missed him.
She also knew I hated making emotional moments about myself.
Whenever people asked whether I wished my dad could be there, I usually just said, “Of course.”
What else was there to say?
I had spent the entire engagement imagining him at the wedding anyway.
I pictured him adjusting my tie too aggressively.
I pictured him complaining about the price of drinks.
I pictured him trying to give a speech even though Aaron was supposed to handle that.
