Chapter 7: The Wedding Was Never About Me

When I pushed open the door to the wedding planning company, the planner stiffened the moment she saw me.

She turned the design display at the entrance toward me.

On the screen, it wasn’t a photo of Grant and me from our engagement shoot.

It was a picture of the three of them.

Grant stood in the middle, with Sloane in a white dress, her arm looped through his, pressed so close she was nearly leaning on his shoulder. I stood at the very edge, still holding her coat, looking less like the bride than like a staff member who had wandered into the frame.

Even the welcome message on the display had been changed.

“Thank you for celebrating our decade of friendship.”

“Who changed this?”

The planner avoided my eyes.

“Mr. Mercer confirmed it last night. He said this was ten years shared by the three of you.”

I said nothing and kept scrolling.

Guest sign-in. Dinner speeches. The commemorative video. Sloane had been inserted into all of it. Then I reached the page for the guest favors, and my hand stopped.

The mock-up showed one hundred and fifty patchwork gift pouches, made from fabric patterns so familiar my fingertips went numb.

The note beside it read:

“Heirloom quilt cut into 150 gift bags for guests, per Mr. Mercer’s instruction. To commemorate ‘the year Sloane was held by all of us.’”

That quilt was one my mother had sewn for me by hand, stitch by stitch, while she was still alive.

Before she died, she gave it to me and said that if I kept it near me on my wedding day, it would be as though she were there to walk me down the aisle.

“Where is the quilt?”

The planner went pale.

“It’s already been sent to be cut.”

I called Grant immediately.

I could hear fabric rustling on the other end, and Sloane laughing nearby.

“I’m helping her try on bridesmaid dresses,” he said impatiently. “You saw the changes to the schedule? It’s just a welcome board. You’re marrying me tomorrow, not a board.”

“You had someone cut up my mother’s quilt.”

He went quiet for two seconds, then said lightly, “Sloane thought it would be meaningful. If every guest takes a piece home, she’ll feel like everyone is holding her up.”

I stared at the image of the one hundred and fifty little bags.

“Who gave you the right to touch my mother’s things?”

Grant sighed.

“Mara, we’re getting married tomorrow. Do we really need to draw such a clear line between yours and mine?”