The morning of my wedding, at 8:43 AM, my mother's best friend Elaine called me. I was in a hotel room in Charleston, wearing the robe the bridal party had given me, about to have my hair done. I knew what the call was about before I answered it. My hand hovered over the screen for four full rings before I picked up. Elaine did not say hello. She said, "She's asking for you. She's not going to make it much past the weekend. It takes thirty-five minutes to drive here. Please." And I said the sentence that has earned me, for the last eleven months, the title of the worst daughter my family has ever produced. I said, "I'm not coming." I hung up. I put my phone face-down on the hotel dresser. And I let the hairdresser do my hair. I got married four hours later on the rooftop of the Dewberry Hotel, in front of eighty-seven guests, and my mother died six weeks after the wedding, and I have not cried once. Not at the news. Not at the funeral. Not since. And I have to explain, because my sisters will not speak to me, why I would do it all over again.
I Didn't Invite My Dying Mother to My Wedding. Everyone Hates Me — And I'd Do It Again.
She had three months left when I got engaged. The family begged. My fiancé asked me twice if I was sure. I said yes. She died six weeks after the wedding, and I have not cried once.
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