She signaled to the back of the garden. The projection screen we’d set up for childhood photos flickered on.
Then, in horrifying clarity: screenshots.
There were photos of Dylan and Lily, kissing on a beach, smiling together, and holding hands! The screen also showed their text messages, a hotel receipt, and a flight confirmation from two months earlier.
Dead silence.
Jane looked at Lily, then at Dylan. Her voice softened. “So, no, I didn’t come here to marry a liar. I came here to bury the illusion I once believed in.”
Then, turning to Lily, whose mascara was already streaking down her cheeks, Jane said quietly, “You can keep the bouquet. You’ve been holding everything else that was mine.”
Then she turned, her train sweeping behind her, and walked back down the aisle the same way she came.
Alone.
I sat frozen, tears spilling down my face, torn between heartbreak and awe. My daughter, betrayed and humiliated, had still found the courage to take her power back in front of everyone.
Everyone stayed rooted in place for a few long, awkward moments after Jane left. The string quartet had stopped playing, uncertain whether to continue. Dylan just stood there, still as stone, his face blank. Lily’s bouquet slipped from her hands and hit the grass with a dull thud.
