“Yes.”
“I told Khloe no.”
He pulled out a chair.
“Sit down.”
I did.
He crouched in front of me.
“And then you told Lena no,” he continued. “And Lena told the special-effects company no.”
I looked at him.
“They knew.”
“Yes.”
“They all knew.”
He brushed a loose strand of hair away from my face.
“I know.”
I looked down at my wedding dress.
I’d spent months saving for it.
I’d chosen the lace with my best friend, Megan, because Mom had canceled our bridal appointment to take Khloe shopping for maternity clothes.
At the time, I’d told myself it didn’t matter.
Megan was wonderful company.
We’d laughed and taken photographs and spent the afternoon drinking coffee.
But I’d still wanted my mother there.
That was the part I hated admitting.
I was thirty-four years old.
I had a successful career as a financial operations manager.
I owned my home.
I’d paid my own way through graduate school.
And some small, stubborn part of me still wanted my mother to look at me the way she looked at Khloe.
Daniel studied my face.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
I swallowed.
“I’m thinking I should have known.”
