At the wedding toast, the moment my parents lifted their cups, the flute burst.

Red wine mixed with cream and hot sauce exploded across them, head to foot.

My mother's new gown was soaked through in an instant, cream clinging to her hair.

My father instinctively reached to shield her, stepped on a shard of broken porcelain, and went down hard onto the floor.

Sophia Chase, Donald Weiss's secretary, was laughing so hard she could barely stand.

"Oh my! They look like two big clumsy water buffalo!"

"That was a little touch I designed just for your wedding. I never thought the trick flute would be so sensitive."

I was shaking with rage, but she only fanned the flames.

"No getting angry, bride! They say if you keep it cool and easy, the marriage goes smooth!"

Donald pressed my hand down too, frowning as he lowered his voice.

"Sophia was only being kind, warming up the crowd."

"Can't you see everyone's having a good laugh? Don't be ungrateful and small-minded."

My mother wiped the cream off her face, her eyes rimmed red, and still forced a smile at me.

"Sweetheart, we're fine."

"Getting married is a happy day. Don't fight over us."

In that moment, I looked at my parents standing there in ruins, still straining to keep up appearances for Donald.

And suddenly this whole wedding struck me as sickening, almost laughable.

They couldn't bear to see me embarrassed.

But Donald could.

If that was how it was.

Then I wasn't getting married.

...

My father braced himself against the floor to stand, the blood on his palm smearing across the red carpet.

Beside him, Sophia frowned at once.

"Sir, please don't get blood on the carpet."

Hearing that, my mother scrambled down and used her sleeve to scrub at that little smear of blood.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"We didn't mean to."

Sophia stood over my parents, her tone all put-upon.

"I did warn everyone the cup had a mechanism. Maybe the two of you were just too nervous and didn't catch it."

The murmuring around us dropped low all at once.

Someone laughed under their breath.

"So she did warn them."

"First time a couple of country hicks have been to the city, probably. No wonder they couldn't keep up."

My fingertips trembled with anger.

"Sophia Chase, you—"

Before I could finish, Donald had already stepped in front of her.

"Sophia already apologized."

"And your parents said it's fine."

He looked at me, brow furrowed, his voice pressed down low.

"There are this many people here today. Do you really have to make a scene until nobody can save face?"

I stared at him, dazed.

My father's hand was still bleeding.

My mother's shoulders were shaking from the cold.

And all he cared about was Sophia saving face.

My father, as if afraid I'd truly lose it, quickly tugged at my sleeve.

"Sweetheart, let it go."

"Your mom and I will go clean up. You go on with the wedding."

Sophia jumped in at once.

"The lounge is full of the Weiss family's relatives right now."

"Why don't the two of you go handle it in the storage room in the back?"

"There's a mop and rags over there."

"Be quick about it, though. Cream is hard to clean once it drips onto the floor."

My mother's face went white for a second, then she lowered her head and said, "Sorry."

"We'll wipe it all clean."

She was the one who'd been humiliated.

Yet she bowed her way through apology after apology, like she was the one in the wrong.

I followed them toward the back.

The storage room was cramped. As my mother stepped in, her hem caught on a metal shelf and tore open in a long gash.

She quickly pressed her hand over it.

"It's fine."

"The lights at the wedding are dim anyway. No one will notice."

She opened her bag. Inside was a new shawl, folded neatly.

"I was going to put it on when we went up on the stage."

"I was afraid I'd look too shabby and embarrass you."

One corner of the shawl was soaked through with red wine.

Still, she kept dabbing at it, inch by inch, with a tissue.

When it wouldn't come clean, she folded the stained part inward.

My father pulled a gift envelope out of his coat too.

It had gone soft and wrinkled where the wine had soaked in, the corners already limp.

He kept his head down, wiping at it for a long time, and his voice was very quiet.

"This is the money your mother and I put in for the toast."

"We wanted to give it to our son-in-law properly."

"And now it's come to this."

When he finished, he gave a small, sheepish smile.

"Don't be ashamed of us, sweetheart."

The tears hit me all at once.

They had spent so long getting ready for this wedding.

Afraid they wouldn't be dressed well enough.

Afraid they'd miss some point of etiquette.

Afraid I'd have to hang my head in the Weiss family.

And what Donald had given them was red wine and cream all over their clothes, the guests' laughter, and a corner stacked with junk.

Then my phone buzzed.

A message from Donald.

"Come out once you've cleaned up."

"Sophia was just having a little joke with your parents. Don't blow it out of proportion. It's nothing."

I looked at that line, and suddenly I laughed.

And just like that, it was supposed to be over.

So in his eyes, my parents' humiliation, the blood on my father's hand, the gown my mother had ruined, were all just small things to be brushed lightly aside.

I wiped my eyes and eased my parents into a seat.

"Dad. Mom."

"Wait here for me a minute."

Then I turned and walked out of the storage room.

At the end of the corridor, the wedding planner was waiting for me, anxious.

"Bride, are we still going ahead with the ceremony?"

I looked toward that harsh flood of light in the hall.

Donald stood at the end of the aisle, head bent, soothing Sophia.

I drew my eyes back and spoke calmly.

"Go ahead."

The planner let out a breath.

But I kept going:

"Just change the program a little."

"Skip the toast."

"After this, we're calling off the wedding."

When I got back to the storage room, my father was sitting beside a cardboard box, the blood on his knee still not stopped.

Seeing me come in, his first instinct was to stand up.

"Sweetheart, are they rushing us out there?"

"Your mom and I will be ready in a second."

I pressed him back down.

"Don't move."

My mother looked up at me, her eyes red, and still she was smiling.

"Don't worry."

"I can wipe this gown down and still wear it."

She glanced at the hem where the red wine had bled through, then quickly tucked the stained part behind her.

"When we go up, I'll stand off to the side."

"The cameras won't catch it."

My throat closed up.

Even now they were still thinking about how not to embarrass me.

Footsteps came from the doorway.

Donald stood outside, frowning at the mess in the storage room.

"Still not cleaned up?"

"The ceremony's almost due to start."

"If it's really too much trouble for your parents, maybe they shouldn't come up onstage."

He paused, his tone as if he were suggesting it reasonably.

"Your mother, looking like that, won't photograph well anyway."

The smile froze on my mother's face.

In that instant, she instinctively looked down at her own gown.

As if she'd finally realized just how wretched she looked right now.

My father spoke up quickly.

"Yes, yes, of course."

"We don't have to go onstage."

"As long as your wedding goes off smoothly."

I looked at Donald, and suddenly this man in front of me felt like a total stranger.

He used to say he would treat my parents as his own and honor them like a son.

But now my parents were hurt and humiliated, and all he minded was that they wouldn't photograph well.

Sophia showed up soon after.

She came back holding a set of clothes, her eyes still red.

"Ma'am, I found you something clean to wear."

"Why don't you change into this."

She said it kindly enough.

But when the fabric unfolded, the color drained from my mother's face.

It was one of the hotel's spare black skirt suits.

Stiff fabric, the hem still creased.

And pinned to the chest was a staff name tag no one had bothered to take off.

Sophia acted as if she didn't notice, her voice soft.

"Just make do with this for now, ma'am."

"The photos are mainly of the couple anyway."

"They won't show you clearly."

My mother held the clothes, her fingers slowly tightening around them.

The formal gown she was wearing today, she had bought two months ago.

To save money, she'd gone a whole month without buying a single new thing for the table.

Every night she tried it on in front of the mirror.

Trying it on, she'd ask me,

"Sweetie, is this too bright on me?"

"Will I look less proper than the groom's family from the city?"

I'd laughed at her back then.

"Mom, you look the best of anyone."

She'd been so happy the corners of her eyes crinkled.

But now she held that old hotel uniform and said, quietly,

"Okay."

"As long as it fits."

My eyes suddenly burned.

Donald, though, looked as if he could finally breathe.

"Sophia's so thoughtful."

Then he looked at me.

"And stop with that cold face."

"You made Sophia cry just now."

"When we go back out, you're apologizing to her in front of everyone first."

Sophia pressed her lips together and said in a small voice,

"Donald, don't push Paula."

"I know she doesn't like me."

"I only wanted to help you two have a good wedding."

Donald's voice went gentle at once.

"I know. Don't let it get to you."

Standing there, I suddenly found I was too tired even to sneer.

My mother lowered her head and said nothing.

But I saw her tears fall onto that black skirt suit.

The stiff fabric drank them up almost instantly.

Not a trace left behind.

A strange calm came over me.

So from the very start, my parents had never been taken seriously at this wedding.

I took out my phone and sent the wedding planner a message.

"Don't wait on the program."

"When the ceremony starts, play the thing I gave you."

The reply came quickly.

"Are you sure?"

I looked at Donald's back as he bent to soothe Sophia.

Then at my parents' eyes, red from holding it all in.

Slowly, I typed two words.

"I'm sure."

When I came back to the hall, Sophia was sitting in the bridal lounge.

Her eyes were red, a cup of warm water in her hands.

Donald stood in front of her, bent slightly at the waist, wiping her tears with a tissue.

"Sophia, don't cry."

"None of what happened today is your fault."

There was a first-aid kit on the table beside them.

My father still had shards of porcelain in his palm.

The blood on his knee hadn't stopped either.

But that first-aid kit had never once been carried off to some back room.

Sophia only had to cry.

And Donald ached for her as if she'd suffered some terrible wrong.

Standing a little way off, I suddenly remembered something from years ago.

The night of the company gala, running a high fever, I'd waited outside the hotel for Donald to come get me.

He'd said he would come once the meeting ended.

But I waited until the early hours, and what came instead was a message from him,

"Sophia had too much to drink."

"She's new at the company, and it isn't safe for a girl on her own, so I'm taking her home first."

I was burning up so badly I could barely stand.

And still I replied,

"Okay. Get home safe."