“Knock, knock.”
Eleanor, Emma’s sister, eases the door to the groom’s suite open, her grin wide and a little unhinged, but in the best way. She looks like she’s the one getting married today. And maybe in some ways, she is. She and Emma are closer than I’ll ever be with any of my four siblings.
But it’s not for lack of love. Them being here with me since 6 a.m. shows that.
“Are you ready?” Eleanor beams at me. I nod, and she hands me a crumpled piece of paper. The edges are soft and worn from months of being folded, unfolded, and folded again. A paper I’ve clung to obsessively. My vows. My heart rapidly climbs into my throat. I tug at my collar and loosen my tie, glancing down at the words I’ve rewritten a hundred times:
I want to care for you the way you care for me. I want to give you a life you love and a love worth living for. I want to chase butterflies with you until my dying breath.
“Steven?” My mom loops her arm through mine and asks, “Do you need a moment?”
“Y–yeah, please.” I clear my throat as most of my family filters out of the suite in a blur of hugs and finger guns.
Dad and Eleanor stay behind—best man and maid of honor waiting for me to pull myself together and get to the altar.
“Ellie, hun,” Dad says, “give us a moment.”
She doesn’t hesitate. She’s always been intimidated by him. I never understood why; he’s the gentlest man I know. Growing up, anytime someone asked who I wanted to be like, I said my father. I still do. But not just the man he is. The husband and dad too.
Once Ellie is gone, he walks over slowly, unbuttons his jacket, and sits at the vanity in the corner. The mirror is framed with delicate gold foil leaves, a strange contrast against his dark skin and tailored navy suit. He doesn’t speak at first, just rubs his hands together like he’s warming himself up then casually brushes invisible dust off his shoes.
The silence stretches long enough to fray my nerves when he finally says, “I’m so proud of you, son.”
Something about those words untangles the knot of emotion lodged in my throat. I feel myself stutter out the wordwhat,but it’s unheard.
“All of my life,” he continues, “all I have ever wanted was for my family to be happy. You know that, don’t you?”
I nod, knowing more than anything that this is true. He gave up his life just so we could have ours.
“And you know that no matter what happens in this life, you will always be my little boy.” His voice cracks, just enough to cause a sting behind my eyes. “I know you’re nervous, and you’re trying to be a big boy about it, but listen… Ibawled like a baby when your mama walked down the aisle. Your Aunt Miriam had to give me her tissues.”
I laugh, barely, my tears now to the surface.
“I knew that day I wanted to give her everything. The world.” His eyes are glazed and unfocused at the memory. “She told me she wanted ten kids. I thought she was out of her damn mind. But standing there, watching her walk toward me, all pearls and white lace… I would’ve given her twenty.”
He exhales, and a thick silence settles around me like a cloud before he finally looks up.
“I know you love Emma. That’s obvious. I’ve never seen you so happy. But let me ask you something.”
“Will you give her ten babies if she asks for them? Will you give up your comfort, your pride, your whole life, so she can have the one she dreams of? Will you love her like she’s your own flesh? Not only when it’s easy, but when it costs you everything?”
His words are heavy. Not dramatic or accusatory. Just true.
I want to sayof course! Yes. Isn’t that why I’m standing here, in this suit, with this crumpled paper in my hand?
But I know why he’s saying it, what he’s really getting at. Mom’s diagnosis last month cracked everything wide open. Dad has been tested more in his marriage than ever. First, there was denial. Mom refusing to talk about it, brushing off the symptoms, denying the need for help. Then came the guilt, feeling like she didn’t take care of herself. Then finally the blame. Up until last week, she was against all of us. Against him. Told us we should’ve known, we should’ve seen the signs.
Maybe we should have.
Through it all though, my dad didn’t flinch. He stayed, unshaken by the torment, planning to endure to the end just as he promised.
That’s the kind of love he’s talking about. The kind you choose again and again, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.
And itisthe kind I want to give Emma.
I clench my vows tight in my hand, stand up straighter, and confidently say, “I will.”
It’s enough for him.
