“Yes,” I said. “We can.”
A few hours later, Emma married Ryan.
The cake sat in the reception hall exactly where it was supposed to be — three white tiers, delicate flowers, completely untouched.
Ryan found me before they cut it.
“Laura?”
I turned.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For what you said to her.”
I nodded.
“You were allowed to keep your story private.”
He looked relieved.
“But secrets have consequences, even when the reason for them is good.”
He glanced toward Emma.
“I know.”
Later, the photographer called out, “Who’s helping with the cake?”
Emma immediately pointed across the room.
“My mom.”
I looked at her.
After everything that had happened, those two ordinary words hit me harder than they should have.
That morning, hearing my name had almost cost us the wedding cake.
By that night, hearing Emma call me “Mom” was enough.
