“Now I understand. They were your eyes, Tori. They were always your eyes.”
I showed her pictures of my childhood, too. The blonde baby in a house full of brunettes. The girl who never quite fit. The woman who had finally found out why.
“I don’t want to replace Diane,”
Linda said.
“She raised you. She’s your mother.”
“She is,”
I agreed.
“But maybe there’s room for one more.”
Linda’s smile could have lit the entire house.
“I’d like that,”
she said.
“I’d like that very much.”
Two months later, I married Nathan Miller in the Rose Garden of Witmore estate, surrounded by fairy lights and family, both the one I was born into and the one I was raised by. My mother walked me down the aisle. Not Gerald. My mother. She wore a champagne colored dress and held her head high, her steps steady for the first time in decades. Beside her, I wore a Vera Wang gown that she and my grandmother had insisted on buying for me.
“A proper wedding dress for a proper wedding,”
Ellaner had declared.
Gerald sat in the second row, quiet and diminished. He didn’t protest when I told him he wouldn’t be walking me down the aisle. He didn’t argue when I explained that this was my mother’s moment, not his.
“I understand,”
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