Earlier this week,
we went out to celebrate a friend’s upcoming nuptials. On the drive home, the conversation inevitably turned to talk about planning.
Do you have a band? What do you plan on wearing? Is it a custom-made suit?
The conversation turned to the fiancée’s father, who isn’t going to be at the wedding. They have an acrimonious relationship. They extended him an invitation but he passed, and she breathed a sigh of relief in response.
But what a problem to tackle, I wondered, even days later. I wasn’t a young girl that grew up dreaming of weddings and fancy white dresses. One of the reasons why was because of my own relationship with my father. Did I invite him, did I not? He couldn’t walk me down the aisle; he was too sick, he would have caused a scene. I would have been embarrassed.
The problem was solved for me the month before I turned twenty-one, years before I had a wedding of my own. I had the good misfortune of my father dying.