The living room looked like a florist shop had exploded inside a craft store.
White tulle was draped over the sofa, boxes of expensive handcrafted chocolates were stacked in unstable towers on the coffee table, and the smell of hot glue and fresh lilies hung heavy in the air. It was 9:00 PM on a Friday. The wedding was on Sunday.
I sat on the floor, my legs cramping, tying a blush-pink satin ribbon around the hundredth favor box. My fingers were raw, but my heart was full. Or at least, I kept telling myself it was full.
“Mom?”
I looked up. Liam, my eight-year-old son, was standing in the hallway doorway. He was clutching his worn-out dinosaur plushie, the one Owen had told him was “too babyish” to bring to the new house.
“What is it, sweetie?” I asked, forcing a bright smile. “Can’t sleep?”
“Is… is Mr. Owen coming back tonight?” Liam asked quietly.
