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.

“Uncle prepared something too?”

She unfolded it with a smile, read only the first line, and couldn't hold back a laugh.

“Today, I give away my most precious daughter to Donald……”

She looked up at Donald.

“That's so old-fashioned.”

“Who even says things like this at a wedding anymore?”

A few of the staff around her laughed too.

My father's face flushed red at once.

He reached out to take the paper back.

“My speech isn't very good.”

“The writing's not good either.”

“So I won't say it.”

But Sophia acted as if she hadn't noticed his embarrassment, and flipped through it again.

She read out the phonetic notes my father had penciled in, and suddenly laughed.

“Uncle was even afraid of mispronouncing it?”

“Really, there's no need to be so nervous. Nobody actually wants to hear this stuff.”

The staff around her laughed along.

My father's face burned red.

Donald finally spoke.

But not to save my father.

Instead, he said:

“Sophia has a point.”

“This part really doesn't suit the style of today's wedding.”

“Uncle, let's just cancel the speech for now.”

My father clutched the paper, his lips moving.

In the end he only said: “All right. Whatever you've arranged.”

I watched him fold the speech back up and tuck it into the already-creased pocket of his suit.

The movement was slow.

Like he was tucking away the last of his dignity along with it.

That speech, he'd spent a full two weeks preparing.

Once when I came home, I saw him sitting in the living room, recording himself on his phone.

He'd get one line wrong, then delete it and start over.

He said:

“Sweetheart, your dad's not an educated man.”

“But you're getting married, so I have to do it properly.”

“I can't have people thinking there's no one from your side standing up for you.”

Back then I just laughed at how nervous he was.

I said: “Dad, just standing there is enough.”

But today.

He didn't even get the chance to stand up there.

Sophia handed the schedule back to the emcee.

“I'll go up and speak in a bit.”

“I know Donald well, and I know the run of show too.”

She looked at my parents with a smile.

“Uncle and Auntie aren't good with words, so it's all the same if I speak for you.”

My mother lowered her head.

My father didn't argue either.

By now they were probably used to it.

As long as it was for my sake, they could endure anything.

Just then the emcee came over with a reminder.

“Miss Chase, please get ready.”

“Your speech is the next segment.”

Sophia smoothed down the hem of her gown and passed by me.

She paused a moment, her voice dropped very low.

“Sis, tell Uncle and Auntie not to feel bad.”

“It's not convenient for them to go up, so I'll say a few words of blessing for them. Consider it me smoothing things over for you all.”

When she finished, a flicker of smugness crossed her eyes.

I didn't look at her.

I only glanced down at my phone.

The wedding planner had sent a message:

“Everything's ready.”

“Are you sure you want to play it now?”

I looked up.

At the end of the red carpet, Sophia had already taken the microphone.

Donald stood below the stage, his eyes on her tender and indulgent.

And my parents sat in the darkest corner.

One clutching the canceled speech.

One clutching that ill-fitting black skirt suit.

Slowly, I typed one word.

“Play.”

The next second, what appeared on the giant screen made every guest below gasp all at once.