My sisters are happy to accept the niceties that come with me dating the co-owner of the second-biggest car dealership in Eugene, Oregon. They know this isn’t a love match. It doesn’t occur to them that it should be. Frank’s been generous with my family. When we started dating, he obviously felt he had to seduce the entire family. He gave Kitty a job and had a chat with the sheriff when she got caught up in an argument with her boyfriend. He took all five of us out for dinner after our fifth date, and bought everyone Christmas presents three months later, after he insisted everyone spend the holiday at his house.

And when he proposed, he also announced he’d bought the trailer we’d grown up in, and gave it to me as an early wedding present—his way of making sure my family was taken care of. Frank is kind. He’s generous. I could do a lot worse.

So why aren’t I looking forward to being married to him? Having a child with him?

My mother comes out of the bathroom. She’s wearing lipstick, which I’ve only witnessed two other times in my life. She’s wearing a long, pastel-blue dress that looks like it was meant for someone else. It’s just so formal. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look so unlike themselves. I look down at my gown. Maybe the congregation will feel the same way when they see me dressed up like this.

She meets my eyes in the mirror and pulls back her shoulders, like she does when someone accuses her of something. “You look beautiful, Rosey. You always do. A smile would complete the picture.” It’s an accusation in disguise: Why aren’t you excited that you’ve landed a man like Frank Goad? You’re going to have a charmed life. It’s good for your whole family.

But she doesn’t say it, because if she does, I might disagree with her. She won’t risk it. She always told me my face would be my fortune. And in her eyes, this day confirms it. I’m marrying into money.

I nod and force a half smile. “I think I just need some air.”

“Someone open a window,” she calls, but my sisters ignore her. I don’t want an open window. I want to look up at the gray Oregon sky and ask God whether I’m doing the right thing.

Before she can stop me, I gather up my skirt, toss it over my arm, and beeline toward the hotel room door. “I’ll be five minutes,” I call over my shoulder.

“Rosey Williams, come back here,” my mother calls. Her voice closes in on me, and before I can make it out the door, she grabs me. “Get back here.”