Becca texted me once to say she was glad things seemed to be moving in a better direction. I told her I was glad too, and that I thought she had done something useful by calling me, and that I hoped the remaining weeks of maid-of-honor duties were manageable. She responded with a emoji that conveyed both affection and exhaustion.
My mother called me once, not about the wedding specifically. She called to ask how I was. She asked it in the direct way she sometimes manages when she is making a genuine effort to not manage the situation but to simply be my mother. We talked for forty minutes about things that had nothing to do with Claire or Owen or Willowmere. About her garden project and my work project and the book she was reading and the trip she was considering taking in the fall. At the end of the call, she said: “I’m glad you’re going to the wedding.”
“Me too, Mom.”
“And I think — I’ve been thinking about this. I don’t think I’ve always made it easy for you to have needs in this family.”
I didn’t say anything immediately.
“That’s okay, Mom.”
“It’s not, really. But I’m saying it, at least.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You are.”
## The Wedding
Willowmere Hall on the last Saturday in April was as beautiful as it had looked in Claire’s photographs and in my memory of the September visit. The gardens were in early bloom, the stone terrace was set with white chairs and a simple floral arch, and the barn had been transformed with warm lights and simple greenery that looked, if anything, better than the elaborate centerpiece scheme that had been abandoned.