‘What?’ My brain clears for a moment and I glare at him, annoyed by the question. He’s never expressed any doubts about my impending marriage before – never shown that much of an interest in my life at all, if I’m brutally honest, so why would he ask me this now, right when I’m about to say my vows? ‘What do you mean, “am I sure”?’

‘Never mind. It’s nothing.’ He flushes, clears his throat and stares ahead down the aisle.

If I felt stronger I’d challenge him further. But Dad and I don’t talk much and I’m not about to start now, not with close to two hundred people staring our way. One of Dad’s favourite sayings is, ‘the best shortage is a shortage of words.’

‘If you’re happy, then so am I,’ he continues, unconvincingly. ‘You know, your mother would have been proud of you,’ he adds.

I give an angry nod in response, not trusting myself to speak. Annoyed with him for invoking my mother. As if that makes his previous question okay.

Everyone keeps glancing back at us, waiting for us to make our walk down the aisle. The music is still playing, but we’re not moving. I think Dad realises he’s holding up the proceedings, so he takes the first step and I walk in time with him along the worn flagstones and past the wooden pews. Slowing my breathing. Swallowing down the nausea that keeps advancing in waves. I’m certain everyone can tell I’m not myself. I’m sure there are a few whispers going around. Or maybe I’m imagining it. I hope I look as beautiful as Dad says I do, and not as ill as I feel. This isn’t how I imagined my walk down the aisle would be. I thought I would feel incredible, excited, blissful. At least I should be thankful that I fainted before the wedding and not during it. Although I don’t want to jinx things. I grip my dad a little tighter and he pats my arm reassuringly.