On the wedding day, I stood near the front of the hall, watching Adele in her white dress.
She looked beautiful.
Not because of the dress, though it was perfect. She looked beautiful because she had survived becoming strong before she had the chance to be carefree.
Her five sisters stood beside her, each one glowing in her own way.
For a moment, I forgot the message. I forgot Maya. I forgot the years of explaining why Mom never called.
Then the doors opened.
Maya entered in a sparkling designer dress, carrying a handbag that probably cost more than my first car. Harry walked beside her, older now, heavier, but still wearing the smug smile of a man who believed money could polish any sin.
Maya didn’t look at me first.
She looked around the room, checking who noticed her.
Then she rushed to Adele.
“Sweetheart,” she cried, “we’re finally together again.”