My sister looked me dead in the eyes at her own wedding, her face a mask of porcelain perfection and cold irritation, and said the words that would burn a hole through our relationship forever.
“Get your daughter out of here. She’s ruining my photos.”
My eight-year-old little girl, Willa, stood frozen on the white runner, dressed in the miniature tulle ballgown I had picked up extra shifts to afford. The cost was three hundred dollars—money that should have gone to our electric bill or the savings jar—but I had spent it gladly because Willa had been vibrating with joy for months. Now, she was sobbing. Not a tantrum, but a silent, chest-heaving devastation that made her tiny shoulders shake while three hundred strangers watched her humiliation in uncomfortable silence.
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