It was a tiny gesture that told me more than any dramatic declaration could have: Frank would protect my choice even if I chose to speak to the man who hurt me.

Dad approached with his boutonniere crooked.

“I didn’t realize you had arranged something like that,” he said.

“I arranged to walk down the aisle,” I replied.

“With Frank. Without telling us.”

I studied him.

For three days I had felt like a child awaiting a decision from her parents.

Now I was a married woman in a dress I had sewn partly by hand, standing beside the person who knew me best.