“He’s going to cry,” Sophie said.
“He cries at dog food commercials,” I said.
“That’s you, Mom. You cry at dog food commercials.”
“Oh. Right.”
We both laughed. And then we both cried. Right there in the boutique, in front of the saleslady, who brought us a box of tissues without saying a word, the way people do when they’ve seen a lot of things in a dressing room.
Mark and I didn’t talk about the vows.
He’d asked me, the second night after I found the folder, not to read his draft.
“Draft nine,” I said. “That’s a lot of drafts.”
“There’s a draft eleven now,” he said. “I keep changing it.”
“Why?”
He looked at me for a long time.
“Because I keep reading it back and forgetting I wrote parts of it,” he said quietly. “And then I read it fresh and it’s like… I’m reading what some guy wrote about his wife. And I think, man, that guy really loves her. And then I remember the guy is me.”
