A soft, collective sigh moved through the pews.

Women dabbed their eyes. Investors nodded in approval.

My father sat rigidly in the front row.

I caught his eye.

Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his right hand and tapped his silver-tipped cane against the marble floor.

Clack. Clack.

Two taps.

Ready.

The priest turned his benevolent gaze to me.

“Clara, your vows, please.”