Chapter 4 - The Speech That Erased Eight Years
Greg reached for my handbag and said:
“What note are you two talking about?”
Karen stepped between us.
Inside my bag was Hannah’s folded letter.
Three words were visible through the paper.
Before Dad speaks.
Greg saw them too.
And for the first time all week, he looked afraid.
I moved my bag behind me.
“It’s from Hannah.”
“What does it say?”
“I don’t know.”
“You haven’t read it?”
“No.”
Karen stared at me.
“Read it.”
“Later.”
Greg’s voice sharpened.
“If Hannah gave you something involving me, I think I should know.”
I looked at him.
“You think?”
He heard it.
The challenge.
Small, but unmistakable.
“We’re already late for the reception,” I said.
Then I walked away.
The renovated mill sat beside the river on the edge of town.
Hannah had fallen in love with it the first time she visited.
Exposed wooden beams.
Tall industrial windows.
Warm string lights.
Long wooden tables covered with greenery and candles.
Near the entrance stood Audrey’s memorial table.
Photographs.
White flowers.
A small card with her name.
And beside the largest picture sat the corsage I had refused.
Seeing it there hurt more than I expected.
White roses beside Audrey.
It looked almost symbolic.
As if the role had been returned to its rightful owner.
I hated myself for thinking that.
Audrey had never rejected me.
She could not.
Greg had done that.
At dinner, I was seated at table four.
Not the head table.
That was expected.
But I had assumed I would be with Greg.
Instead, he was seated beside Hannah’s grandparents.
I sat with two family friends, Karen, one of Ethan’s aunts, and a couple from Greg’s office.
“Interesting seating choice,” Karen muttered.
“Don’t.”
“I’m just saying.”
“You’ve been just saying for twenty-four hours.”
“And you’ve been pretending you don’t care.”
“I care.”
“Then stop acting invisible.”
I looked at her.
“This is Hannah’s wedding.”
Karen’s expression softened.
“I know.”
“That is why I am not confronting my husband in front of two hundred people.”
“Fair.”
I touched my handbag.
The letter remained inside.
Before Dad speaks.
I should have opened it.
I almost did.
Then the DJ tapped the microphone.
Dinner ended.
Champagne was poured.
The room quieted.
Greg stood.
My heartbeat changed.
He walked to the center of the dance floor.
“Hannah.”
His voice cracked immediately.
The room laughed gently.
He smiled.
“I knew this was going to happen.”
Hannah smiled from beside Ethan.
Greg began talking about her childhood.
The time she cut her own bangs at five.
Her first soccer game.
The disastrous science project involving baking soda.
College.
Nursing school.
Ethan.
Then his voice changed.
“And of course, none of us could be here tonight without remembering someone who should be standing in this room.”
He turned toward Audrey’s memorial table.
“Hannah’s mother.”
My throat tightened.
Greg spoke beautifully about Audrey.
That was not the painful part.
Audrey deserved every word.
He talked about her laugh.
Her stubbornness.
The way she used to leave handwritten notes in Hannah’s lunchbox.
“When Audrey died,” Greg said, “I promised her in my heart that I would raise our daughter into the kind of woman she would be proud of.”
People wiped tears from their eyes.
I did too.
Then Greg continued.
“And I couldn’t have done it without family.”
I looked at him.
For one foolish moment, hope rose.
He thanked his parents.
His brothers.
Karen.
Audrey’s cousins.
His old friends.
Hannah’s teachers.
A neighbor who used to drive Hannah to school.
Ethan’s parents.
He mentioned almost everyone who had touched Hannah’s life.
Except me.
Eight years disappeared.
The track meets.
The driving lessons.
The late-night phone calls.
The college applications.
The soup.
The breakups.
The graduation dress I had helped zip.
The wedding appointments.
Gone.
I sat with my hands folded beneath the tablecloth.
One of the family friends across from me looked at Greg.
Then at me.
She lowered her eyes.
That was almost worse.
Pity.
I could survive being overlooked.
I did not want to be witnessed being overlooked.
Karen leaned toward me.
“Jenna.”
“No.”
“You need to read the letter.”
“Not now.”
“Now.”
I looked at her.
“Why?”
She swallowed.
“Because I know what Hannah wrote.”
My pulse jumped.
“How?”
“She called me yesterday.”
“What did she tell you?”
Karen looked toward Greg.
He was still speaking.
“She asked me a question.”
“What question?”
“Whether Audrey would have hated her for loving you.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“She’s been carrying that guilt for years.”
I stared at Hannah.
She was watching her father.
Her face was calm.
Karen continued quietly.
“She told me she feels disloyal sometimes. Like loving you as family means she’s leaving Audrey behind.”
My eyes burned.
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
“Because she knew you would tell her she had nothing to feel guilty about.”
“She doesn’t.”
“I know.”
Karen touched my hand.
“She also told me something else.”
Before she could continue, applause erupted.
Greg had finished.
He lifted his glass.
“To Hannah and Ethan.”
Everyone stood.
I stood too.
I smiled at Hannah.
She smiled back.
Then Greg returned the microphone to the DJ.
Except Hannah intercepted it.
“Actually,” she said.
The room quieted again.
Greg looked surprised.
Hannah stood beside Ethan.
“Thank you, Dad.”
Her voice carried clearly.
“Everything you said about my mom is true.”
She turned toward Audrey’s photograph.
“I loved her with my whole heart.”
My eyes dropped.
Nobody replaces her.
I knew that.
I had always known that.
“Nobody replaces her,” Hannah said.
My chest tightened.
Exactly.
Then she continued.
“But when you lose a parent young, life doesn’t stop asking things from you.”
The room became still.
“You still need somebody to answer when you call at midnight.”
My head lifted.
Hannah was looking directly at me.
“You still need somebody to sit in freezing rain at a track meet.”
Karen squeezed my hand.
“You still need somebody to teach you to drive even after you almost hit a church sign.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the room.
My vision blurred.
“You still need somebody to bring soup three hours because you’re twenty years old and convinced nursing school is going to destroy your life.”
Now everyone was looking at me.
Greg’s face drained of color.
Hannah stepped away from the head table.
“And sometimes,” she said, “you need somebody who loves you enough to never ask you to call her Mom.”
I covered my mouth.
Hannah walked toward me.
The room was completely silent.
She stopped beside my chair.
Held out her hand.
“Jenna.”
I could not move.
“Stand up.”
I did.
She took both of my hands.
Exactly as she had countless times in kitchens, hospitals, dorm rooms, and ordinary days.
Her eyes glistened.
“You never tried to replace my mother.”
I shook my head.
“I know.”
“You just loved me.”
A tear slipped down my cheek.
Hannah smiled through hers.
Then her gaze dropped to my bare wrist.
The smile disappeared.
“Where’s your corsage?”
I glanced toward Audrey’s memorial table.
She followed my eyes.
Saw it.
Then she looked toward the empty place where I should have been seated beside Greg at the ceremony.
Something changed in her expression.
“Why is it over there?”
“Hannah, not now.”
“Why?”
Greg stood.
“Sweetheart—”
She turned.
“Dad?”
The room seemed to shrink.
Greg looked at me.
Then at her.
“Hannah, finish your speech.”
She stared at him.
“What did you say to Jenna?”
Nobody moved.
Greg tried to smile.
“This is not the time.”
Hannah’s fingers tightened around mine.
“That means you said something.”
I whispered, “Please.”
She looked at me.
Then at the microphone.
Then at two hundred guests waiting.
Slowly, she set the microphone on the table.
“I need five minutes.”
She took my hand.
“Come with me.”
“Hannah.”
“Please.”
Karen stood too.
Greg stepped forward.
“Hannah, don’t turn this into—”
She stopped.
Her face changed.
“Into what?”
Greg said nothing.
We walked toward the hallway behind the reception room.
Ethan followed.
So did Greg.
Karen came last.
Hannah opened the bridal changing-room door.
Then she turned to me.
“Open the letter.”
My hands trembled as I reached into my handbag.
I unfolded the paper.
The first sentence made my knees weak.
Jenna, if Dad has done what I think he’s done, there is something you need to know before he speaks tonight.
I looked up.
Hannah was crying now.
Greg whispered:
May you like
“Hannah, you promised you wouldn’t bring this up.”
And that was when I realized the letter was not about the wedding at all.
