“Dad, do you think Mom remembers my face?”
But now, five days before Natalie’s wedding, Monica had suddenly remembered that she had a daughter.
His message was short.
“I’ll be at Natalie’s wedding, David. Adrian and his family will come with me. I’m sure you understand how bad it would be if I missed my own daughter’s wedding. I hope you keep things civil.”
I read it once.
Then another.
And then a third.
There was no apology.
There was no regret.
There was no question about whether Natalie even wanted her to be there.
Just an advertisement.
Just a warning.
Only Monica, still acting as if the rest of us existed solely to protect the perfect life she had built after leaving our own.
Seventeen years earlier, I had been standing in the hallway of our little house with Aubrey asleep on my shoulder, while Monica packed her bags by the front door.
