Someone in the third row filmed that exact, shattered moment.

Forty-eight hours later, that shaky cell-phone footage had racked up eleven million views.

I was entirely oblivious to the camera during the reception. By the time the sun set, I’d married Mia under a canopy of soft gold light, with Lily refusing to sit in the front row, choosing instead to stand directly between us during the exchange of rings.

When the officiant finally declared, “You may kiss the bride,” Lily tugged urgently on my sleeve and announced to the whole room, “Me too!” The chapel erupted in tearful laughter as I kissed Mia, then scooped Lily up to kiss her cheek.

For one flawless, insulated hour, I completely forgot the phantom echo of my father’s voice.

Then, halfway through the plated dinner, my phone began vibrating against my thigh. I ignored it, assuming it was a flood of congratulatory texts. But Marcus leaned across the white linen, his own phone glowing in his hand, his expression uncharacteristically grave.