I have not spoken to Cecile since the wedding. It will be, in June of this year, two years. She tried. God, she tried. She sent me a card the following week. She sent me a card at Christmas. She called my mother. She called my sister. She wrote me a letter in April that was twelve pages long, in which she explained, over and over, that she had "only been trying to celebrate me." She had, she said, read in a wedding speeches blog that "revealing an overcome hardship" was a "modern way" to make a toast meaningful. She said she had not understood it was not mine to reveal. She said — and this is the part that made me, finally, after reading the letter twice, cry for the first time since the wedding — she said, "I did not understand, when I told a ballroom, that what I was doing was telling the world a secret instead of telling them a story. I thought they were the same thing. I see now they are not. I am so sorry." I did not write back to the letter. My sister read it too. My sister said, "She is a woman who does not understand what she did, and she will probably never understand, and I am not sure there is a way for you to come back from this." I agreed.