“He can come, obviously. Nobody is saying he can’t come.”
“Mom—” Daniel began.
“I’m saying he doesn’t have to be in it. Sweetheart, think practically. It isn’t one picture. It’s the whole aisle sequence, the album, the enlargement, and what goes above our fireplace too.”
I gazed at her.
She continued.
“His face will be in every single frame.”
Daniel went still.
“You’ll be looking at that for 40 years. I don’t want those photographs.”
The room changed.
That’s the only way I can explain it.
Nothing moved.
But everything changed.
I set my glass down.
Very carefully.
I had six things ready, and I was going to say every one of them, in her dining room, in front of her son.
That’s my brother.
Say his name.
Say what you mean while I’m sitting here.
Tell me exactly what part of his face ruins your photographs.
Tell me whether you think Down syndrome is contagious through an album.
Tell me whether you understand that my father is dead.
Tell me why you think your mantel gets a vote in my wedding.
Then Daniel took my hand under the table and squeezed it once.
“We’ll figure something out,” he said.
Not to me.
To her.
I turned my head slowly.
For half a second, I thought he meant we’d figure out how to remove Nathan.
Then I saw his face.
Daniel wasn’t agreeing with her.
He was stopping me.
Not because she deserved protection.
Because he knew me.
He knew if I started, I would not stop.
And once I stopped, Margaret would become the story of that night.
The argument would spread.
Calls would happen.
Families would choose sides.
Nathan might hear something.
It was my wedding.
I wasn’t handing her the story of the night I screamed at her table.
So I smiled.
Actually smiled.
And said, “The salmon was very good.”
Daniel nearly choked.
Margaret looked confused.
The dinner ended 15 minutes later.
I didn’t speak in the car until we’d turned onto the highway.
Then, I said, “Pull over.”
Daniel glanced at me.
“Why?”
“Because I need to yell and I don’t want you crashing.”
He pulled into a gas station.
I unbuckled my seat belt.
“What the hell was that?”
“I know.”
“No, what did you mean, we’ll figure something out?”
“I meant I needed five minutes before you set my mother’s dining room on fire.”
“She said she didn’t want my brother’s face in our wedding pictures.”
“I heard her.”
“And you said we’d figure something out?”
Daniel turned toward me.
“Sarah, Nathan is walking you down that aisle.”
I came to a halt.
“There was never another option,” Daniel said firmly.
“Then why didn’t you tell her?” I demanded.
“Because if I’d said what I wanted to say, we’d both be banned from Thanksgiving,” he replied.
Despite myself, I laughed.
Then I cried.
Daniel reached for me.
I let him.
“I don’t want Nathan knowing,” I said.
“He won’t.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
That mattered more than anything.
Nathan had spent almost a year grieving Dad.
He didn’t need to know somebody thought his face was a problem.
I didn’t sleep much.
By around 3 a.m., I knew exactly what I was going to do.
And it had nothing to do with saying anything to Margaret.
The next morning I called the photographer.
Her name was Lena.
“I need to change something about the wedding day,” I said. “And I need you not to mention it to anyone in his family. Not to his mother. Especially not to her.”
She was quiet for a second.
“Okay. Tell me.”
“I want another photographer.”
“We already have a second shooter.”
“I want one more angle.”
“For the ceremony?”
“For Nathan.”
One more pause.
“What exactly do you want covered?”
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