“He shouldn’t have spoken to you that way.”
“No.”
A long silence passed.
Then he said, “He’s scared.”
I turned to him. “Of what?”
“Being ordinary.”
The answer surprised me.
My father looked toward Nicholas, not with pride now, but with a weary sadness.
“When he was young, your mother praised him for every performance. Every trophy. Every room he impressed. Somewhere along the way, I think he decided love had to be earned that way.”
I swallowed.
“And me?”
“You earned it quietly,” he said. “So quietly we forgot earning was never supposed to be required.”
That sentence almost undid me.
I looked down at my hands until my vision steadied.
“I don’t hate him,” I said.
“I know.”
“But I’m tired of shrinking so he can feel tall.”
My father nodded.
“You shouldn’t have to.”
It was the most honest conversation we had ever had.
It ended not with a hug, but with something smaller and perhaps more believable: my father reaching across the table and squeezing my hand once.
Then Allison approached.
“Jenna,” she said softly, “could I borrow you for a minute?”
I stood.
She led me toward a quiet hallway outside the ballroom, away from the music and the curious guests. The air smelled faintly of lilies and rain. Through the windows, I could see the estate gardens glowing under lanterns.
Allison stopped near a small table holding framed family photos.
“I owe you an apology,” she said.
“You don’t.”
“I do.” She folded her hands in front of her gown. “When Nicholas described you, I believed him. Not because he said anything cruel exactly, but because he made you sound… unserious. Drifting. A little dependent.”
I looked away.
“That sounds familiar.”
“I should have questioned it.”
“You were planning a wedding. People believe what makes life easier.”
She gave a sad smile. “You’re generous.”