There was one photograph taken just after the church doors opened.
I was walking forward in dress blues, my shoulders straight, my wings bright above my heart.
Colonel Hayes was beside me.
Michael waited at the altar, looking at me exactly as he had promised he would.
In the corner of the image, my father’s face was visible.
I considered cropping him out.
Then I left the photograph unchanged.
Not because he deserved a place in the memory, but because the image told the truth.
He was there.
He had tried to stop me.
And I had walked forward anyway.
The dresses were gone.
The wedding was not.
Neither was I.
