Chapter 4 - The Rehearsal at Brookmere
The rehearsal on Friday, November 14, took place at Brookmere Country Club. The venue reeked of manufactured luxury—endless miles of oatmeal-colored commercial carpet, polished brass sconces, and a massive stone fireplace that looked like it had never burned a single log in its artificial life.
The wedding coordinator, a clipboard-wielding tyrant named Brenda, stood at the front of the mock-aisle barking instructions. Surrounding us were Preston’s family members, who occupied the front rows with the effortless entitlement of people who owned summer homes they never visited.
“Alright, let’s run it from the top,” Brenda called out, clicking her silver pen. “Sloan comes down first scattering silk petals, followed by our four adult bridesmaids, then the maid of honor.”
I stood near the second row with Ren, waiting for the cue. Ren wore her favorite sneakers and clutched her paper basket tightly against her stomach, her knuckles pressing into the green construction paper.
Brenda finished reading the entire lineup. She did not say Ren’s name. Not once.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I looked down at Ren. She was staring up at the empty aisle, waiting for her cue that never came.
I stepped past the rows of chairs, walking right up to Kelsey, who was standing near the altar with Preston. I kept my voice low, but it vibrated with suppressed rage. “Kelsey. Where is Ren on this list? The coordinator didn't call her name.”
Kelsey didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. She rolled her eyes, her voice dripping with casual cruelty. “She’s too annoying, Dar. She asks a million questions about every little thing, and Maryanne’s family expects this ceremony to run like clockwork. We just decided it’s better if she sits in the audience.”
Ren had followed me. She was standing right beside my elbow, close enough to hear every word.
I turned to confront my sister, but my mother materialized at my elbow with terrifying speed, her hand sliding smoothly under my arm. “Then don’t bring her tomorrow, Darcy,” Mom said, her voice entirely flat, carrying the exact same casual tone she used to suggest moving a casserole to a lower oven rack. “It’s solved. Just leave her home.”
“She’s seven years old!” I hissed, my voice rising. “You asked her to be here! You made a big production out of asking her!”
My father remained firmly seated in the second row, staring straight ahead at the blank fireplace. Without turning around, he tossed out a verdict: “Don’t start drama, Darcy. Not here. Not in front of Preston’s family.”
Across the room, Maryanne Hail was studying a printed seating chart with an air of intense, deliberate concentration, as if we were nothing more than a minor stain on her immaculate tablecloth.
Ren tugged gently at my sleeve. Her lower lip trembled just a fraction, but she kept her voice remarkably small. “Mama... am I not in it?”
The sound of her voice broke something inside me—not my spirit, but the last fragile thread of my tolerance for my family's emotional abuse.
“Come on, sweetie,” I said, taking her small, warm hand in mine. “We’re leaving.”
As we turned to walk down the aisle toward the grand exit, a single paper petal—carefully glued by little hands weeks ago—came loose from Ren’s basket and floated down onto the oatmeal-colored carpet.
Nobody stepped on it, and nobody picked it up. It just lay there, small and green and utterly discarded.
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In the parking lot, as I buckled Ren into her booster seat, my father knocked sharply on the driver's side window. I rolled it down an inch. He leaned in, his face tight with irritation. “You’re making a scene over nothing, Darcy. Go back inside and apologize to your sister. Don’t ruin her weekend.”
I rolled the window back up without saying a word, put the car in reverse, and drove away.
