The wedding day dawns with aggressive sunshine, like the universe decided to mock my inner turmoil with perfect weather.
I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, green eyes and silver medallions haunted my consciousness. The pillow still has mascara stains from last night's emotional breakdown.
I find Mum in her suite, standing before a full-length mirror in her silk robe. Her wedding dress hangs nearby—ivory lace, fitted bodice, elegant without trying too hard.
She looks terrified and hopeful in equal measure. Her hands tremble slightly as she touches the fabric.
"Darling! Perfect timing! I can't reach my zipper and my hands are shaking too badly anyway."
I cross the room and take the dress from its hanger carefully. The fabric whispers expensively against my fingers as I help her step into it.
She holds her breath while I work the zipper up her spine, inch by careful inch. The lace settles against her shoulders like it was made for her.
"Too tight? I've stress-eaten approximately seven croissants this week. Possibly eight. I lost count after Tuesday's emotional spiral."
"You look beautiful, Mum. Genuinely beautiful."
She does. The dress fits perfectly, accentuating curves she usually hides beneath sensible cardigans. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears and barely contained panic.
"I'm terrified," she admits quietly. "After everything—after David, after James, after that absolute disaster with Michael—I keep waiting for something to go catastrophically wrong."
I guide her to sit at the vanity and begin fixing her hair. Soft waves, pinned elegantly at the nape. My fingers work automatically while she continues.
"James proposed after six months. I thought that was romantic at the time. Swept off my feet and all that. Turned out he was just impulsive about everything, including leaving me for his yoga instructor."
"Richard isn't James."
"Michael seemed perfect on paper. Stable job, nice flat, excellent credit score. His mother even liked me. Then I discovered his other fiancée in Birmingham."
I nearly drop a hairpin. "The secret Birmingham fiancée. Classic Michael."
"Richard definitely doesn't have a secret Birmingham fiancée. I've checked. Thoroughly. His internet history is concerningly boring."
She laughs wetly, the sound somewhere between amusement and hysteria. I continue working on her hair.
"This feels different. Twenty years of friendship first. We already know each other's worst qualities. He's seen me with food poisoning and didn't run away."
I secure another pin carefully. "That's real intimacy right there."
"I've witnessed his karaoke attempts. Multiple times. He still can't hit a single note in 'Bohemian Rhapsody' but insists on performing it at every opportunity."
"And you're still marrying him?"
"Enthusiastically." Her voice softens. "He makes me feel safe. I'd forgotten what that felt like. Fifteen years of being terrified someone would leave, and Richard just... stayed."
My chest tightens unexpectedly. Despite everything—the chaos, the Oliver situation, my general emotional catastrophe—I want this for her desperately.
She deserves safe. She deserves someone who stayed her friend for two decades before becoming anything more. Someone steady and present.
"He's lucky to have you," I say, meaning it completely.
She squeezes my hand, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. "Oh, don't start me crying now! I'll ruin my makeup and the photographer will have documented evidence of my breakdown."
I hand her a tissue. She dabs carefully at mascara while I finish the final touches on her hair. A few more pins. Some strategic smoothing.
"There. Perfect. You look like a bride who's about to marry someone excellent."
She studies her reflection, then mine beside it. "My beautiful daughter. Walking me down the aisle with Oliver. Could this day possibly be any more perfect?"
My stomach performs an Olympic-level gymnastics routine. Oliver. Right. That particular complication I've been aggressively not thinking about since that night's pillow-screaming incident.
"Absolutely perfect," I manage through clenched teeth.
The ceremony is set in the hotel garden. White chairs arranged in neat rows. An arch covered in roses and peonies that probably cost a small fortune. Guests murmur in anticipation.
Richard stands at the altar looking simultaneously joyful and nauseated. The expression of a man who can't believe his luck but fears it might evaporate.
Oliver appears beside me in the staging area. He's wearing a perfectly tailored navy suit that fits him infuriatingly well. His medallion is hidden beneath his collar today. Small mercies.
"Ready, sis?"
"Don't call me that."
"Stepsister? Future family member? Woman I'm legally forbidden from flirting with after approximately twenty minutes?"
"Silence would be ideal."
The music shifts to something classical and romantic. Our cue. Oliver offers his arm with infuriating gallantry, like a gentleman from a period drama.
I take it because refusing would cause a scene that would overshadow Mum's wedding, and I'm not quite that selfish.
His hand settles over mine on his arm. Warm. Steady. Completely inappropriate given everything that's happened between us.
We begin walking. The aisle stretches before us like a runway of elegant torture. Every step brings us closer to the altar while his thumb traces small circles against my knuckles.
"Stop that," I hiss between smiling teeth.
"Stop what?"
"The touching. The deliberate, purposeful touching."
"I'm escorting you properly. This is how escorting works in civilized society."
"Escorting doesn't require thumb circles."
He leans closer, lips nearly brushing my ear. His breath is warm against my neck. "You look beautiful when you're trying not to look at me."
Heat floods my cheeks instantly. I stare straight ahead with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb. His quiet laugh vibrates through me annoyingly.
We reach the altar. I take my position opposite him, grateful for the physical distance between us. He catches my eye across the flower arrangements and winks.
I contemplate murder. Justifiable homicide. A jury would understand.
Then the music changes again, and everyone rises.
Mum appears at the garden entrance, radiant and trembling. She walks toward us, toward Richard, toward her third chance at forever. Her smile could power entire cities.
Richard's face transforms the moment he sees her. His composure cracks beautifully. His eyes fill with tears he doesn't bother hiding. His hands shake at his sides.
The officiant begins speaking. I hear phrases—"gathered here," "union of hearts," "lifelong commitment"—but my attention stays fixed on Mum.
She's glowing. Actually glowing. Every failed engagement, every heartbreak, every lonely year disappears from her face completely.
Richard's voice wavers through his vows. He promises faithfulness, partnership, patience during terrible karaoke performances. Mum laughs through her tears.
Her vows are simpler but devastatingly sincere. She promises to love him completely. To stop expecting disaster. To trust that this time, finally, she chose correctly.
I feel genuine happiness swell in my chest despite everything. Despite Oliver's presence burning across from me. Despite my own complicated mess. My mother deserves this moment.
"I now pronounce you husband and wife."
Richard kisses her like a man who can't believe his luck. Guests applaud enthusiastically. Someone whistles. Mum laughs against his lips, pure joy.
I clap along, vision slightly blurred. Happy tears. For her.
Movement catches my eye. Oliver, raising an invisible glass in my direction. A private acknowledgment. A reminder that everything between us just became significantly more complicated.
I look away immediately.
We're officially family now. Stepbrother and stepsister. Bound by a marriage that isn't ours but changes everything.
Whatever existed between us—that electric possibility—now carries the weight of legal relation.
The universe really commits to its jokes.