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.