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?”
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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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“Nora, Sarah’s really hurt. You promised she could be part of this.”
Nora didn’t meet my eyes. “It’s not a big deal. Abigail’s never been in a wedding. Let her have this.”
“She’s 12, Nora. She’s dreamed about this for ages.”
Nora’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not changing my mind.”
I felt my anger rising. “She’s my daughter.”
Nora put the dress back in the bag with a sigh. “And this is my celebration, Winston. I decide who gets to be in it.”
“I’m not changing my mind.”
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***
That night, Sarah made dinner with me. She insisted we make pasta from scratch, flour everywhere, sauce bubbling, and Sarah telling me about her favorite book series.
“Dad,” she said, “do you think Nora will like my card?”
She held up a handmade invitation: “To Nora, from your bonus daughter.”
I forced a smile. “She’ll love it.”
When Sarah went to bed, I sat on the porch steps, phone in hand.
“To Nora, from your bonus daughter.”
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I scrolled through old photos:
- Sarah, as a toddler, had spaghetti sauce on her cheeks.
- Sarah’s first Halloween.
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