Amelia turned and walked straight toward me.
Ryan remained standing in the middle of the ballroom watching his daughter leave.
Thankfully, nobody applauded.
She was nine years old.
She wasn’t there to deliver some triumphant revenge speech on my behalf.
She was simply a child finally saying things the adults around her had never allowed her to say.
Near the entrance, my mother hurried toward us.
“Annie, wait. At least let Amelia stay for the family pictures.”
I stopped.
“For Amelia’s sake,” Mom added.
Before I could respond, Amelia looked up at her grandmother.
“Mom came because I needed her.”
She tightened her arms around the candle.
“That’s what supporting family means.”
For once, my mother had no argument.
Instead, she silently picked up Amelia’s coat and helped her put it on.
Behind us, the photographer began calling people together for the “new family” picture.
Ryan looked toward Amelia.
She didn’t move.
Neither did I.
Eventually, Lina walked back beneath the flower arch and stood beside her new husband.
There was an obvious empty space next to them.
The place where Amelia had apparently been expected to stand.
Ryan stared at that empty spot longer than he looked at the photographer.
Then we left.
—
During the drive home, Amelia balanced the candle across her knees.
I glanced at it.
“Do you want me to throw that thing away?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
She traced one finger over the smooth wax.
“It belongs to me.”
Strangely, that made more sense than almost anything any adult had said that entire day.
—
The moment we walked into the house, Amelia’s younger siblings surrounded her.
“Was the cake huge?”
“Did Dad cry?”
“Was Aunt Lina wearing a crown?”
For the first time all day, Amelia laughed.
“No, idiot. She wasn’t wearing a crown.”
Within ten minutes, Amelia was back in her pajamas, stealing fries from her brother’s plate while he complained that she had her own food.
The wedding candle sat on the kitchen table.
I picked it up.
“Where do you want this?”
She thought about it.
Then pointed toward the windowsill.
“There.”
