That night at dinner, Sarah pushed her peas around her plate in silence.
I watched her, trying to catch her eye.
“You alright, honey?”
She shrugged and stared at her fork. “Am I in trouble, Dad?”
“Of course not. What makes you say that?”
“Am I in trouble, Dad?”
“Nora seemed mad when I asked about the flower girl thing,” she mumbled. “Did I do something wrong?”
I squeezed my daughter’s hand. “No, kiddo. Sometimes grownups just get weird about weddings. I’ll talk to Nora.”
She gave a tiny smile. “Okay. Maybe I’ll help with the streamers instead.”
I tried to smile back, but something heavy settled in my chest and wouldn’t budge.
***
In the days that followed, I tried to talk to Nora. She was distracted, always texting or on the phone with her mother. I finally caught her in the kitchen, Abigail’s flower girl dress spread out on the counter.
“Did I do something wrong?”
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