“Blush. It’ll match the roses perfectly,” I said. “It’ll be elegant without being overdone.”
“Perfect,” he said, flashing that easy grin that had made me believe in second chances. “Hold on, darling. My mom’s calling me.”
The screen went black.
I waited, assuming he’d pop back on any second. Maybe his mother had a question about the rehearsal dinner logistics, or maybe she wanted to finalize something about the reception. I kept folding laundry—Harry’s socks, the girls’ t-shirts, the everyday fabric of our lives.
Then, I heard voices.
Not knowing he was still on the line, not realizing the call hadn’t actually ended, they began talking.
“Did you get her to sign it, Oli?” a woman asked. Her voice was clipped and purposeful.
I recognized it immediately. It was Sarah, my soon-to-be mother-in-law. Her voice had a particular quality—controlled, strategic, the voice of someone making calculations.
