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 fiancĂ©e’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.