Why Two Electric Hair Clippers Appeared on the Dance Floor at Our Reception
“No,” she said, her voice rising slightly. “I do not need Mason fixing things.”
She looked down at her small, clean kitchen floor, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.
“I am just tired, Clara,” she said. “I do not want to be a burden on your big day.”
“You could never be a burden,” I said, reaching out toward her arm.
She stepped back, her eyes darting to the hallway mirror.
“You have enough to do,” she said, walking toward the front door.
She stood by the door with her hand on the brass knob, waiting for me to leave.
I found Mason in our living room that afternoon, sitting on the floor surrounded by three cardboard storage boxes we had brought up from his mother’s basement. We were looking for some old lace to wrap around my bridal bouquet, but the boxes were mostly filled with old receipts and tax documents. Mason was holding a small, faded cardboard box that smelled of dust and old cedar.
“Look at this,” he said, handing me a small black-and-white photograph.
