Everyone came to our wedding expecting vows, champagne, and a perfect first dance. Instead, Mason and I picked up clippers and shaved each other’s heads before dinner. By the time I explained why, the ballroom had gone so quiet that even Mason’s grandma Maribel finally stopped trying to hide.
Three days before my wedding, Mason’s grandmother hid her hairbrush under a towel.
That was the first thing I noticed.
Mason’s grandmother hid her hairbrush under a towel.
Not the closed curtains, though it was nearly noon.
Not the untouched tea cooling beside her chair.
Not the stack of wedding programs still wrapped in ribbon on the hallway table, as if she had meant to look at them and changed her mind.
The brush stayed with me.
She had meant to look at them and changed her mind.
It was ivory, old enough for the handle to be smooth where her fingers had held it for decades.
I had seen it on Maribel’s dresser every time we visited, resting beside a little glass dish of pearl earrings and a framed photo of Mason with two missing front teeth.
That morning, it was tucked beneath a folded towel in the bathroom sink.
Not hidden well.
Hidden in a hurry.
I had seen it on Maribel’s dresser.
A few silver strands still clung to the bristles.
Mason saw it too.
He did not say anything.
Neither did I.
