The kitchen smelled like cheap artificial cinnamon instead of my mother’s dark roast coffee. My father stood by the counter, tearing through a stack of old yellow folders in search of our wedding seating chart. The old white stove buzzed with its usual low hum.
I poured two mugs of black coffee and watched the steam rise against the cold autumn light. He did not look up when the ceramic clicked against the laminate.
“The florist needs the final head count by ten,” I said, rubbing the small silver anchor on my charm bracelet.
My father adjusted his flannel collar, pulling it away from his throat as if it had shrunk in the wash. He was fifty-eight, but his shoulders slouched like an older man’s.
“I had it right here on the breadbox,” he muttered, his voice a low, tired grunt.
I touched the heavy white cardboard box resting on the dining table, its corner peeking out from under a plastic dry cleaning bag. Inside lay the cream satin wedding gown I had saved for two years to buy. It was a simple, elegant piece with a smooth, heavy drape.
“We will find it, Dad,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
He finally looked at me, his eyes softening as they lingered on the dress box.
“Mom would be proud, Cal.”
He went back to shifting papers, his boots scuffing the linoleum. I took my coffee and walked down the narrow hallway toward the front door to check the porch.
Brenda stood near the coat rack, her fingers tapping a steady, sharp rhythm on the wooden banister. Her red manicured nails made a dry clicking sound that always made me tense. She was thirty-nine, and her eyes seemed to calculate the value of everything they landed on.
“You are up early for a bride,” she said, her voice carrying an edge that did not match her wide smile.
“There is a lot to do before two o’clock,” I said, keeping my words quiet and deliberate.
She glanced toward the kitchen where my father was still rustling papers, then looked back at me.
“Men like Rowan marry for comfort, you know,” she said.
