“Dad told me I am her big brother and I should take care of her.”
Then the last sentence.
“So that is what I am doing.”
I don’t remember standing upright after that.
I remember Daniel’s hand on my back.
I remember Mom sobbing openly.
I remember Father Michael taking off his glasses.
And I remember Nathan folding the paper very carefully.
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Then asking, “Do I sit now?”
Everyone laughed through tears.
“Yes,” I managed.
He went to sit beside Mom.
The ceremony continued.
And Margaret never said a word.
Not about Nathan.
Not about the photographs.
Not that day.
Eight weeks later, the album arrived.
The regular wedding album was beautiful.
The second one was better.
It began with Nathan getting ready.
Dad’s cufflinks.
Nathan checking the time.
Nathan standing alone at the church doors with his arm out.
Then the walk.
Page after page.
His face concentrating.
My hand around his arm.
His lips moving as he counted.
The moment he looked at me halfway down.
Daniel hugging him.
Then the speech.
One double-page spread showed Nathan at the altar holding the paper in both hands while everyone in the pews behind him blurred into tears.
I cried all over again.
We hosted dinner the following Sunday.
Daniel’s parents came.
So did Mom.
Nathan was there too, discussing a football game with Daniel as though he hadn’t emotionally destroyed an entire church eight weeks earlier.
I put the album on the coffee table.
I didn’t announce it.
Didn’t hand it to Margaret.
Didn’t make a point.
I went into the kitchen.
When I came back, she was sitting with it open on her knees.
She’d gone through about half.
She was looking at the double-page spread of Nathan at the church door.
Arm out.
Waiting for me.
You could see his lips slightly parted.
Counting.
Margaret didn’t look up.
“He practiced this.”
I stood behind the couch.
“Every day for three weeks.”
She turned another page.
Then another.
She reached the photograph at the altar.
Nathan with the paper.
Me crying.
Daniel behind me.
She stayed there for a long time.
