“I’m trying.”
“You don’t look like it.”
“Do you want me to perform better?”
His jaw tightened.
The photographer circled us.
We smiled when the camera passed.
When the song ended, guests applauded.
Eleanor stepped onto the floor for the mother-son dance.
She held Julian as though reclaiming him.
That thought was unfair.
I knew it was unfair even while having it.
Not every affectionate moment between them concerned me.
That was what made the photograph situation so exhausting.
I had to separate ordinary closeness from strategic exclusion.
Eleanor benefited from the ambiguity.
When the dancing became informal, my brother pulled me aside.
“Do you want me to punch someone?”
“No.”
“Shame. I rented this tuxedo.”
I laughed despite myself.
He looked relieved.
“What happened?”
“Family photo.”
He waited.
“That sounds boring.”
“It is.”
“Why are you upset?”
I explained.
Unlike Julian, he did not immediately interpret or defend.
He listened.
Then said, “That was deliberate.”
“Yes.”
“And he let it happen.”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Not ruin the wedding.”
“That answer worries me.”
“It’s already happened.”
“The wedding?”
“The part where I thought marriage would change how they see me.”
He hugged me.
“You don’t need them to see you correctly in order to exist correctly.”
“I know.”
“Knowing doesn’t stop it hurting.”
“No.”
Near midnight, guests gathered outside for fireworks.
The sky above the lake filled with gold and white light.
Julian stood beside me with his arm around my shoulders.
For a few minutes, we stopped arguing.
The fireworks reflected in the water.
Music drifted from the ballroom.
My parents stood behind us holding hands.
I wanted to freeze that moment instead.
Not the photograph taken during my absence.
The following morning, Eleanor hosted breakfast in the glass pavilion.
She wore cream trousers and a cashmere sweater.
Nothing about her suggested she had spent the previous evening drinking champagne until one in the morning.
I arrived with Julian.
She kissed his cheek.
Then mine.
“Beautiful evening,” she said.
“It was.”
“Celeste is extraordinary.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll need the gallery link when it’s ready.”
I looked at her.
“It may take several weeks.”
“I know. I’m simply excited to see the family portraits.”
Julian’s hand touched my back.
A warning.
Or reassurance.
I no longer knew.
Eleanor smiled at me.
“The photographs become history, you know.”
“Yes,” I said. “They do.”
She held my gaze.
For one second, the polite surface disappeared.
We both understood.
She had taken the photograph she wanted.
