The man who stepped in when my father refused to walk me down the aisle

intersected with mine because of work, friendship, kindness, or time. Then I found the last row. Dad sat staring at his shoes. Mom held her purse across her lap like a shield. Vanessa scanned the room as though she were checking exits. They had come. For one ridiculous second, something hopeful moved inside me. Maybe they came to fix it.Then Mom leaned toward Dad and whispered something. He looked irritated. Vanessa crossed her arms. And I understood. They had come so they could later say they had been there.