My father’s voice still echoes in my head long after breakfast. “The fifteenth.”

That’s all he said before turning to his newspaper, like he didn’t just announce the date of my wedding.

The word still burns in my chest like dry ice. But this time, my hand doesn’t shake around the spoon. I don’t cry. I don’t even blink. My heart feels still, it's hard and cold like stone.

I look down at my plate, untouched, and push it away. My mother sits across from me, her face soft with ...