She never once wondered if the common thread might be her. That kind of wondering wasn’t in Donna’s makeup.
And somewhere in there, she’d developed this strange, almost superstitious fixation. She’d gotten it in her head that the reason she’d never married — the actual reason — was that she had never, not once, caught a bridal bouquet. She talked about it like it was a curse. Like all those other women who’d caught bouquets over the years had stolen her luck, her turn, her happiness, right out of the air in front of her.
At the last family wedding, two years before Mia’s accident, Donna had physically shoved a bridesmaid to get at the bouquet and still missed it, and then sulked at her table for the rest of the night. It had been embarrassing. My mother, before she passed, used to say Donna would trample a nun to catch a bunch of flowers.
