The photographer’s instructions stop any further conversation. I’m handed a bouquet of roses and instructed to smile. We take individual photos, group photos, candid shots, posed shots. I lose track. I just keep smiling, and no one seems to notice the expected expression pasted on my face is mostly fake.

I think I’m exaggerating how long the photos are taking, but when the wedding planner instructs us to head inside and take our places for the ceremony, I realize it’s actually the opposite. The hallowed building echoes with audible chatter as we walk down the hallway toward the front of the church. My father and his groomsmen split off to enter the front of the altar.

There’s a man who looks close to eighty waiting in the church vestibule. The front doors to the chapel have been closed, and the oak ones marking the entrance of the nave are shut as well.

Strains of organ music penetrate the ancient wood, halting the chatter that was previously echoing. The older man introduces himself to me and Hallie as Sandra’s father, and the two of them take their place at the back of the line. The music swells and transitions to a melody even I, who have only been to a grand total of two weddings, recognize.

The doors in front of me open, and Hallie starts walking. I count to ten and then follow her down the aisle. I saw the church earlier, but it’s animated now. Lively.

A hush fell as soon as Wagner began to play, but there’s a low hum of voices filled with excited energy as we walk forward. I reach the end of the aisle and take my place beside Hallie at the foot of the altar. Sally takes the next spot, and then I watch the whole congregation rise as the music reaches its crescendo, perfectly coordinated with Sandra’s arrival.

She’s beaming as she floats down the aisle on her father’s arm. She doesn’t look like someone who’s done this twice before. Her smile is giddy when she reaches my dad’s side.

I zone out for most of the ceremony. Sandra must have had some sort of religious upbringing, because I can’t imagine my father selecting the numerous lengthy readings the priest declaims. He seems content to listen to them, though, nodding along and smiling. He looks happy, and it makes standing in heels that are slowly cutting off all circulation in my feet worth it. Regardless of our relationship, I want him to be content. And he seems to be.

The vows come last. Is it impossible to attend a wedding and not imagine saying those words yourself? Hallie’s crying, but I don’t feel emotional.

I feel detached.

Incredulous.

My father’s words from earlier reverberate around in my skull. There was a time I swore to myself I never would again.

So why is he?

* * *