"I stood in front of that mirror and felt nothing. No excitement. No joy. Just this overwhelming sense of dread."
I turn back to Mom, and the tears I've been holding back finally spill over.
"Now it's Saturday. My wedding day. And I feel like I'm drowning."
Mom doesn't say anything for a long moment. She just pulls me into her arms, and I collapse against her shoulder. The dress crinkles and protests, but I don't care. I hold on like she's the only solid thing in a world that's spinning out of control.
"What do you want to do?" she asks quietly, her voice steady against my hair.
I pull back and look at the door. At the window with its view of the gardens below. At my reflection in that mirror, this stranger in white lace who's been pretending for so long she forgot what real felt like.
"I want to run."
A sharp knock on the door makes us both jump.
"Jessica?" A voice calls from the hallway. Melissa. My maid of honor. "Everyone's asking what's taking so long. The ceremony was supposed to start ten minutes ago."
Mom's eyes meet mine. She stands up, walks to the door, but doesn't unlock it.
"She needs a few more minutes," Mom calls through the wood. "Makeup emergency."
"Well, hurry up. Callum's mother is having a fit, and the photographer is threatening to leave if we don't start soon. The guests are getting restless."
I can hear the irritation in Melissa's voice. She's been like this all week. Short with me. Impatient. Always checking her phone and disappearing for long stretches during wedding prep.
Always coming back smelling like men's cologne that isn't her boyfriend's.
My stomach twists.
"We'll be out soon," Mom says firmly.
Footsteps retreat down the hallway. Mom turns back to me, and I see the decision crystalize in her eyes.
She walks to the door and locks it. The click of the deadbolt echoes through the room.
"How much of a head start do you need?"
Relief crashes over me so hard I almost can't breathe.
"Ten minutes?"
She checks her watch, that delicate gold piece Dad gave her on their twentieth anniversary. He died two years later, and she's never taken it off.
"I'll tell them you're having a breakdown. That you need space." She grabs her phone from the vanity. "Where are you going?"
That's the question, isn't it?
I have nothing. My apartment is in Callum's name. My job, the one I quit because he said his salary was enough for both of us. My friends, the ones who slowly disappeared because Callum didn't like the way they "encouraged my worst impulses." Even my bank account is joint now. He said it was romantic. A symbol of our partnership.
Really, it was just another way to keep me dependent.
I grab my phone, scrolling past Callum's texts. Fifteen of them now in the last hour alone.
Don't forget to smile for photos.
Keep your speech short. Nobody wants to hear you ramble.
Remember to thank my parents. They paid for the venue.
