I got married at 3 PM. The ceremony was beautiful. My father-in-law walked me down the aisle. I had a moment, during the vows, where I thought I might cry, but I didn't — not because I wasn't moved, but because I had been bracing for Diana for so long that my body had forgotten how to feel things without checking first whether it was safe. Graham's mother hugged me at the reception and told me I was "radiant." My sister Lacey did not come. My sister Piper did not come. My uncle Roy did not come. Elaine did not come. A full third of the guest list did not come because they had chosen to be at the hospice instead, or because they had refused to be at my wedding in protest, or because they had done both. I did not look for their empty chairs during the ceremony. Graham, who had seated a family friend next to me so the chair wouldn't be empty on my side, squeezed my hand once during the reception and whispered, "I'm really proud of you." I nodded. I did not cry.