"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."

Afterward, I took a cab home on my own.

The driver saw how pale I was and asked if I wanted to go to the hospital.

I shook my head.

Because back then I still thought Sophia had only just started at the company, with no one to look after her.

It seemed only right for Donald to show her a little extra care.

Now, thinking back on it.

His thoughtfulness had never been in short supply.

It just never made its way to me, or to my family.

The moment I came close, Donald looked up at me.

"Are your parents all sorted out?"

Then his gaze moved past me, to whoever was behind me, and his brows drew together.

"Why haven't they changed yet?"

My mother stood there stiffly, the black skirt suit draped over her.

My father held her up, one palm clumsily wrapped in tissue.

The tissue was already soaking through red.

Donald acted as if he hadn't seen it, and simply turned to instruct a staff member.

"Move Mr. and Mrs. Coleman's seats farther back."

"It's not really appropriate for them to be at the head table now."

My mother's face went white.

But my father nodded first.

"Fine, fine."

"Anywhere is fine for us."

The staff member came over with a new seating chart.

My parents had been placed in the farthest corner.

Beside them were stacked spare chairs and audio cables.

Guests passing by them frowned and gave them a wide berth.

As if they weren't the bride's parents, here for their daughter's wedding.

As if they were just dead weight shoved into a corner at the last minute.

I looked at that seating chart, my voice very quiet.

"Why the change?"

Donald frowned.

"Your parents' clothes are in that state. If they sit at the head table, they'll get photographed."

"The media's here today."

"I'm thinking of everyone."

Thinking of everyone.

Everyone except my parents.

My father hurried to take my arm.

"Sweetheart, the corner is nice."

"Nice and quiet."

My mother forced a smile too.

"That's right."

"Better than having us photographed and embarrassing you."

Something clamped down hard on my chest.

She hadn't done a single thing wrong.

And yet she had already learned to make herself disappear.

It made me think of last winter.

My mother was in the hospital for a minor operation, and I called Donald to ask if he could come with me to the hospital.

He said he had a meeting at the company that day and couldn't get away.

I ran up and down on my own, paying the bills, picking up the medicine, signing the forms.

By the time I got home that night, two blisters had rubbed raw on the soles of my feet.

But the next day, I saw a photo on Sophia's social media.

In a hospital corridor, Donald sat beside her.

A cup of hot coffee in his hand.

The caption read: "Someone was worried the tooth extraction would hurt, and insisted on staying with me till the very end."

I went and asked him about it.

He only explained, mildly:

"Sophia doesn't have any family in this city."

"You have your mother taken care of."

I stayed silent for a long time that day.

In the end, I still talked myself into it.

He was just too soft-hearted.

But only now do I understand.

It wasn't soft-heartedness.

He simply weighed Sophia's tears as more important than me or my family.

The emcee came over with the program sheet to confirm things with Donald.

When my father saw his own name on it, something seemed to come back to him, and he quickly pulled a sheet of paper from the inner pocket of his suit.

He had folded that paper neatly, smooth.

But the corners had bled and blurred from the red wine earlier.

"I prepared a speech," he said, a little awkwardly.

"If it's still needed, I could say a few words."

His voice grew fainter and fainter.

As if he too knew that he no longer belonged up on that stage.

Sophia suddenly reached out and took the paper from his hand.