Chapter 2: The Reception of Broken Mirrors
The ceremony had been a blur of golden light, steady vows, and the comforting weight of Troy’s ring on my finger. For forty-five minutes, the world had been perfect. But as we walked back down the aisle as husband and wife, the iron doors were opened once more, and reality waited for us in the glass-walled pavilion where the reception was set to take place.
I had hoped—naively—that my parents and sister would have left. That the humiliation of being locked out of the ceremony would have driven them back to their pristine house in the suburbs.
But as Troy and I entered the pavilion through the side doors to freshen up before the grand entrance, I saw them.
They were seated at Table One.
Table One was supposed to be the head family table. It was decorated with a massive arrangement of white dahlias and gold-dipped eucalyptus, sitting right in front of the dance floor. My mother had managed to pull strings with the venue coordinator—likely by threatening a lawsuit or making a scene in the lobby—to get them inside for the dinner portion.
Marin was still wearing the dress.
She sat there like a deposed queen, her lace wrap draped dramatically over the back of her chair. She had added a rhinestone tiara to her hair, which she definitely hadn't been wearing in the living room two weeks ago. She was aggressively sipping a glass of champagne, her eyes dark and fixed on the empty head table where Troy and I were supposed to sit. My mother was whispering furiously into my father’s ear, while Arthur stared at his water glass, turning it round and round in his hands.
"They're still here," Maya said, appearing at my side with a glass of white wine and a wet napkin to fix my makeup. "Do you want me to have security escort them out of the reception too? Because Marcus and David are still on the clock, and honestly, they look like they’d enjoy it."
I looked at Troy. He was watching me, his jaw set, waiting for my cue. "It’s up to you, Mrs. Miller," he said, using my new last name for the first time. The sound of it sent a thrill through my veins, but it also anchored me. "If you want them gone, they’re gone in sixty seconds."
I looked back at Table One. I saw the way the guests at Tables Two, Three, and Four were deliberately looking away, their conversations forced and loud. I saw the way Marin was practically vibrating with the desire for a confrontation. She wanted me to scream at her. She wanted me to call security again in front of everyone so she could play the victim, so she could tell the extended family that Saraphina ruined her own wedding by being crazy and jealous.
"No," I said quietly, taking the wine from Maya and taking a long sip. "Leaving them outside was protection. Kicking them out now would be giving them the show they want. We let them stay. But we do not give them a single second of our attention."
"Are you sure, Sarah?" Troy asked, his hand coming to rest on the small of my back. "Marin looks like she’s ready to storm the stage during the speeches."
"Let her try," I said, a cold, hard certainty settling into my bones. "She’s wearing a wedding dress to her sister's wedding. Everyone in this room has eyes. They aren't looking at her with admiration, Troy. They’re looking at her like she’s a car crash."
Ten minutes later, the DJ announced us.
"For the first time as husband and wife, please welcome Mr. and Mrs. Troy Miller!"
The pavilion erupted. Troy’s family, our college friends, my co-workers—they stood up, clapping and cheering with an intensity that felt like a protective shield. We walked out onto the polished wooden floor, Troy holding my hand high.
As we passed Table One, I deliberately kept my eyes focused on the center of the room. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw Marin stand up. She didn't clap. She just stood there in her white gown, trying to catch my eye, trying to force me to acknowledge her presence. My mother stood up with her, her face a mask of tight, performative joy as she tried to wave us over.
We walked right past them to our sweetheart table at the front.
The dinner proceeded in a strange, dual-reality tension. On one side of the room, there was laughter, clinking glasses, and genuine celebration. On the other, Table One sat like a black hole, sucking the light out of its immediate surroundings. My aunts and uncles who shared the table with them looked profoundly uncomfortable.
During the salad course, my father got up.
He walked slowly toward our table, his hands still deep in his pockets. Troy stood up immediately, stepping slightly in front of me. His posture wasn't aggressive, but it was protective.
"Arthur," Troy said, his voice polite but cool.
"Troy. Sarah," my father said, nodding. He looked older than fifty-six. The lines around his eyes were deep, and he wouldn't look Troy in the eye. He looked at me. "Sarah, your mother is very upset. Marin has been crying in the bathroom for twenty minutes because of what happened at the gate."
"Marin shouldn't have worn a wedding dress to my wedding, Dad," I said, my voice deadpan. "And you shouldn't have let her leave the house in it."
"It’s just a dress, Sarah," he said, using the exact phrase he had used when Marin ruined my favorite sweater in high school by spilling bleach on it. "You know how she is. She just wanted to feel special. You have Troy now. You have all of this. Why did you have to humiliate her in front of everyone? It was cruel."
The word cruel stung, but it didn't pierce the skin the way it used to.
"Dad," I said, leaning forward slightly. "Look at me."
He finally raised his eyes.
"I am your daughter too," I said, my voice shaking just a little before I steadied it. "But you have never once protected me. Not when I was eight, not when I was eighteen, and not today. You walked past your eldest daughter dressed as a bride to come here and tell me I am cruel for wanting my own wedding day. You can go back to Table One now. And if Marin or Mom approaches this table, I will have Marcus remove all three of you."
My father stood there for a long moment, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. He looked at Troy, hoping for an ally, but Troy’s expression was made of stone.
"You've changed, Sarah," my father whispered.
"No," I replied. "I just stopped waiting for you to be a father."
He turned around and walked back, his shoulders slumped. When he reached the table and whispered something to my mother, Eleanor’s eyes flared with rage. She grabbed her purse, stood up, and yanked Marin—who had just returned from the bathroom, her mascara perfectly intact despite the alleged crying—by the arm.
May you like
They walked out before the main course was served. They didn't say goodbye. They didn't leave a gift.
And as the heavy glass doors of the pavilion slid shut behind them for the second time that day, a cheer went up from Table Three, led entirely by Maya. The real party had finally begun.
