“What exactly are you afraid will happen?”
I stared at him.
“You know what.”
“My mother will want pictures with her children.”
“That is not the problem.”
“Then what is?”
“I don’t care if your mother takes a photograph with you alone. I don’t care if you take pictures with your sisters, your brother, your father, or every second cousin who arrives from Connecticut.”
Julian rubbed his forehead.
“I know.”
“I’m talking about the formal family portraits. The ones that become part of the wedding album. The ones people frame and place over fireplaces.”
He glanced at the spreadsheet.
“I said you would be included.”
“I want us both included with both families.”
“You will be.”
“Not only because I asked the photographer. Because you want it too.”
His eyes met mine.
“I do.”
I wanted to believe him.
The difficulty was not that Julian’s family behaved cruelly all the time.
Cruelty would have been easier.
The Ashfords were polite.
Immaculately polite.
