She said, “This tradition began before your time.”
She said, “Immediate family only,” then made exceptions for people she liked.
She said, “Don’t take it personally.”
Always after doing something personal.
Julian defended me inconsistently.
Sometimes he noticed.
Sometimes I had to explain.
Sometimes he became angry with his mother.
More often, he said, “That’s just how she is.”
Those words became a quiet third person in our relationship.
Eleanor was just like that.
Caroline was just like that.
The Ashfords were private.
Traditional.
Complicated.
My hurt always needed context.
Their behavior never did.
The wedding was supposed to change the language.
At least, that was what I told myself.
Once I became Julian’s wife, I would no longer be the temporary woman near the edge of photographs.
Our wedding would mark the joining of families, not my admission into his under special conditions.
Julian agreed.
He sat beside me at the kitchen island and opened the spreadsheet.
“All right,” he said. “Show me the groupings.”
I turned the laptop toward him.
My parents with both of us.
My mother and me.
My father and me.
My parents with my brother, Julian, and me.
Julian’s parents with both of us.
His siblings with both of us.
His entire immediate family with both of us.
His mother with Julian.
His father with Julian.
Each sibling with Julian separately.
“This is fine,” he said.
“There’s one grouping I don’t want.”
He looked at the screen.
“Which one?”
“You, your parents, and all your siblings without me.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Natalie.”
“I know how that sounds.”
“It sounds like you don’t want my mother to have a picture with her children.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
“You just said exactly that.”
“Not in general. At our wedding.”
He leaned back.
“What difference does the location make?”
