We danced that night. Or — Mia danced, in her way, spinning her chair in circles on the dance floor while Claire and her friends danced around her, everyone laughing, the DJ playing every song Mia requested. She had the bouquet tucked into the side of her chair the whole time. She wouldn’t let it go.
On the drive home, she was quiet in the back seat, watching the streetlights go by, holding those white roses in her lap.
“Mom?” she said.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Do you think Aunt Donna’s okay?”
I looked at her in the rearview mirror. After everything Donna had done, my girl’s first quiet thought in the dark was whether the woman was okay.
That’s who Mia is. That’s who she’s always been. It just took a wedding, and a cruel woman, and a borrowed microphone, for her to remember it.
“I think Aunt Donna has a lot of growing to do,” I said. “Just like you told her. And I think that’s up to her now.”
