I put my hand over my mouth. I had told her that. Months ago. On one of her worst nights, when she’d asked me through her tears if anyone would ever love a girl who couldn’t walk. I’d told her about her father, about our wedding, about how none of the parts that mattered had anything to do with legs. I didn’t know she’d kept it. I didn’t know she’d been holding it inside her all this time like a stone in her pocket, waiting.
“So here’s the important thing you forgot, Aunt Donna,” Mia said. And she lifted her chin. “It was never about the flowers. And it was never about walking.”
She looked out at the room, at all those still faces.
“You’ve caught a lot of bouquets,” she said, turning back to Donna. “My mom says you’ve been trying your whole life. But you’re still not married. And I used to wonder why. But now I think I finally understand it.”
