The conversation ended. I hung up. I sat at my kitchen table for a long time. Nathan came home from work. I told him what I had done. He held me for a long time. He said, "I'm so proud of you." I said, "I don't want to be the woman whose father didn't come to her wedding." He said, "I know. I don't want that for you either. But I would rather you be that woman than the woman who spent her wedding day being walked by the stepmother who sold her dead mother's piano." That sentence, which Nathan said with the specific combination of love and clarity that I will be grateful for every day of our marriage, broke

open something in me. I cried for about an hour. Then I called my uncle Denis. I said, "Denis. Mom's brother. I'd like you to walk me down the aisle." He said, "Kid. It would be my honor." I called the venue. I told them we needed to handle the rehearsal dinner ourselves. Nathan and I paid for it out of pocket. It was expensive. It was fine. We also, on the advice of my therapist, sent my father one final email — a short one — telling him that we loved him, that we understood his position, and that the invitation was open until the morning of the wedding if he wanted to come alone.