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  67. 3:46 a.m.

I don’t want to discipline him. I want to be cool Uncle Henry.

Lassie looks at Archie, then back to me.

Meow.

“Take away his PlayStation for a week? We don’t even own a PlayStation.”

Meow.

“You want to buy him a PlayStation so we can take it away from him?” I shake my head. “And this has nothing to do with the tantrum you threw on Christmas when Santa didn’t bring you a PS4?”

Meow.

“No, you weren’t good all year. Actually, you were awful.”

Meow.

“Uh, for one, you brought like five bunnies into my house, and God only knows what you did to them. Not to mention, you terrorized that little shih tzu down the hall to the point they filed a restraining order against us.”

Meow.

“Yes, I understand that when they named him Captain Pancake they were probably asking for it.”

Meow.

“What else? You and Murdock and those stupid goats destroyed a man’s house, and you knocked up his tabby cat.”

He glares at Archie, then back at me. His whiskers twitch and I know what he’s thinking.

I sigh. “Yeah, I know, if you didn’t do all that stuff, then we wouldn’t have Archie.”

The thought is unbearable. The little kitten can break something every day for the rest of his life for all I care.

I sit down on the bed, and Lassie and I join Murdock, and the three of us fawn over our little Archie.

He bites at Murdock’s ear, then bats it around.

It’s hilarious.

A couple minutes later, I leave and head downstairs.

It’s 3:08 a.m.

I have a lot to do in fifty-two minutes.

I’m getting married tomorrow.

::::

I stop halfway down the stairs.

What had yesterday been my father’s living room is now in the process of being transformed into a makeshift wedding chapel. All the furniture has been cleared out and a white arch is situated where a flat screen TV sat a day earlier. White wooden folding chairs are stacked and leaned against the walls.

I suppose I was naive to think planning a wedding that would only last an hour would be easy.

I could not have been more wrong.

Because we only have sixty minutes, everything has to go perfectly. If the nuptials run long, there might not be time for the father-daughter dance. If we take too long with photos, we might not have time to eat. If it takes longer than expected to cut the cake, there might not be time for the champagne toast.

I weighed in when necessary — these flowers or those flowers, this cake or that cake — but most of the heavy lifting was left to Ingrid and my father.

Anyhow, I continue down the stairs and make my way into the kitchen where my father is hovering over a skillet.

“Hey, Sonnyboy,” he says with a wide smile.