Emma had always been especially careful about that.
Two weeks before the wedding, she called me.
"Mom, I need you to promise me something."
"Anything."
"No matter what Dad does, don't react."
I laughed.
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"What exactly are you expecting him to do?"
"Nothing. I just want one day where everybody gets along."
That should have told me something.
Instead, I promised.
The ceremony was beautiful.
Emma married a kind man named Michael in the small stone church where my parents had married.
Sunlight came through the stained-glass windows as they exchanged their vows.
Emma cried halfway through hers.
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Michael reached up and wiped a tear from her cheek, which only made her laugh.
For that hour, everything felt easy.
No divorce.
No old resentments.
No one measuring who was sitting where or who had spoken to whom.
Just Emma.
Happy.
Our younger daughter, Sophie, 19, cried harder than I did.
