“What are you two plotting?” I asked, kicking off my shoes.
“Just grown-up stuff,” Marcus said, winking at Ivy.
Ivy zipped her lips and threw away the key, her eyes dancing with a secret. I assumed it was a surprise dance for the reception or a gift.
I had no idea that Marcus, knowing his mother’s propensity for theatrical cruelty, had been preparing my daughter for war.
Back in the reception hall, the memory of that quiet Sunday afternoon crashed into the reality of the moment. Ivy was halfway to the DJ booth. The silence in the room was absolute. Everyone—from the caterers to the cousins—was holding their breath.
Dolores looked down at the small child approaching her. For the first time, her mask slipped. She looked confused, then annoyed.
“Excuse me, Grandma Dolores,” Ivy said. Her voice was small but crystal clear in the silence.
She stopped right in front of the woman who had just called her “baggage.” Ivy reached out a small hand.
“May I please have the microphone?”
Dolores blinked. She looked at the guests, then back at the child. She was trapped. To refuse a child would make her look like a monster; to hand it over was to lose control. With a trembling hand, she passed the microphone to Ivy.
Ivy took it with two hands, clutching it to her chest like a talisman. She turned to face the room. She didn’t look scared. She looked… ready.
“Hi everyone,” Ivy said, her voice amplified, filling the barn’s vaulted ceiling. “My name is Ivy. I’m the flower girl.”
