The perfect wedding

Mom gave me the perfect wedding.

I didn't want crystals of stained glass sunlight on a frothy white gown. I had absolutely no interest in a carriage and pair, the gleaming sword and towering cake, or a band to swing bouffant pendulums.

I'd been the drudge who'd cleaned and reattached trains, let out the seams on ugly bridesmaids' dresses, and then had to lie about how beautiful everyone looked. I knew how to contrive nomadic tents from grand ballrooms and conjure fairytale palaces from barns. I'd stumbled across grooms embracing maids without honour and brides making love to hip flasks. Besmirched lips, smeared mascara, fathers aflutter and unsettled terms. We'd pitched rainbows, and then mopped away the puddles in the morning.

She knew exactly what I didn't want.