Nigdy w to nie wątpiłem.
Ale sądząc po minie Marty, tak właśnie było.
Ale problemem była Marta.
She had spent years comparing me to Lydia, Caroline’s daughter.
Lydia had money, taste, beautiful dinners, and, according to Martha, everything I lacked.
The strange part was that I barely knew her.
She’d always been friendly.
The rivalry existed almost entirely in Martha’s mouth.
Martha was the problem.
Nick defended me.
“Enough, Mom. Stop comparing them. I’m marrying Jillian.”
He said all the right things.
Then a few days passed, and we’d all sit around Martha’s table again, pretending nothing had happened.
I helped with that.
Whenever Martha crossed a line, I made a joke or told Nick to forget it.
“Stop comparing them. I’m marrying Jillian.”
I thought being easygoing made me mature.
Mostly, it made things easier for Martha.
***
Even that morning, Martha had found me while I was getting ready.
She stood behind my chair and touched one of the flowers woven into my braid.
“Well,” she said, “you certainly committed to it.”
Martha had found me while I was getting ready.
I met her eyes in the mirror.
“Committed to what?”
“The whole rustic look.”
“I like it. It’s our theme, Martha.”
“Oh, I can tell.”
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