When they left, Catherine came in and hugged me.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I don’t know, but I don’t feel guilty,” I replied.
“That is also a form of healing,” she said.
A year after the wedding, Isabelle rang the doorbell of our house.
Catherine and I were preparing a simple dinner to celebrate our anniversary.
I opened the door and saw her there, looking thinner and tired.
“I need to talk to you,” she said.
I let her come in.
She sat in the living room and looked at the photos of our wedding on the wall.
“You have a nice house,” she remarked.
“Thank you, but what do you need?” I asked.
I didn’t ask how she was, because I knew that tone of voice all too well.
“I was offered a job at a marketing agency, but when they investigated my name, all the wedding drama came up,” she said.
“So?” I asked.
“I need you to publish a statement saying that it was all a family misunderstanding,” she said.
I looked at her without moving.
“You want me to lie publicly to save your career?” I asked.
“It is not lying, it is just softening the blow,” she argued.
“You planned your party on my wedding day to force the family to choose, and that is the truth,” I said.
Her eyes filled with tears, but they weren’t tears of regret.
“Are you going to punish me for the rest of my life?” she asked.
“I am not punishing you, I am just not going to bear the consequences for you,” I said.
“You were always so resentful,” she spat.
I opened the door wide.
“You came to ask for help, but insulting me is not a good strategy,” I said.
Isabelle stood up with a hardened face.
“You are going to regret this,” she said.
