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THE NARRATIVE ARC
I Didn’t Care if It Ended in Divorce
Marrying out of spite was one of my best drunk moves
I’m giddy. I want to laugh at the iridescent sky, the sinking sun, how its golden spears pierce a misty veil to cast a prismatic panorama upon an eternal blue canvas. But I’m at my stepdaughter’s wedding, so I reign it in.
It’s just so unbelievable. Not nature’s magnificence, in which I trust implicitly. Not these perfect human specimens before me—recently children, now long-limbed and bright eyed, pretty faces full of hope and hunger, straight white teeth ready to tear into life’s meatiest part.
The groom’s family owns this seaside Bahamian estate. They are gregarious hosts who not only initiate a pre-dinner pickleball match but also demonstrate mastery of the sport.
Everything is spectacularly preposterous.
But the unlikeliest part of all is that the bride’s guests are tolerating each other. Given our adversarial history, that is.
My former husband sits between me and my erstwhile mortal foe, mother-of-the-bride, Kim.
As our daughter recites her vows, I put an arm around him and squeeze her shoulder, which is thin and draped in pink satin. She brushes away a tear, shakes her head and…
