Chapter 3
I stared at the envelope in my father's hand.
"What's that?"
He looked at Patricia.
"Would you like to explain?"
She immediately shook her head.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
My father sighed.
"Yesterday afternoon, you met with the hotel's general manager, Mr. Collins."
Patricia's face tightened.
I turned toward her.
"Why?"
She folded her arms.
"I had questions about the reception."
"What questions?"
"Seating arrangements. Service. Photography."
My father opened the envelope.
Inside were copies of emails.
He handed the first page to me.
I read the subject line.
"Special Event Access Restrictions."
My stomach tightened.
The email was from Patricia to the hotel manager.
She requested that the front seating area remain clear of wheelchairs, walkers, and other mobility equipment during the ceremony.
She described those items as visually distracting.
I looked up.
"Are you serious?"
Patricia reached toward the paper.
"That's private correspondence."
I pulled it away.
"You asked the hotel to move guests with disabilities to the back?"
She sighed.
"Marcus, you're making it sound terrible."
"It is terrible."
My father looked at her.
"The manager refused the request. He informed me because I was the person who had arranged the event."
I stared at Patricia.
She looked toward the ballroom doors.
I followed her gaze.
Nia was standing there.
She had heard everything.
For a moment, her expression looked genuinely shocked.
"Mom?"
Patricia turned toward her.
"Sweetheart, please."
Nia walked closer.
"You told the hotel to move people in wheelchairs?"
Patricia looked irritated.
"I was trying to make sure the ceremony looked elegant."
I felt sick.
The same word.
Elegant.
Perfect.
Beautiful.
For months, I had heard those words repeated whenever Nia discussed the wedding.
I had thought she simply wanted a special day.
Now I was beginning to understand what those words had cost the people around her.
Nia looked at her mother.
"You told me Arthur's chair was blocking the photographs."
Patricia hesitated.
My eyes narrowed.
"What?"
Nia swallowed.
"Mom said the photographer had complained about the seating."
I stared at her.
"Did you actually speak to the photographer?"
She shook her head.
"No."
My father looked toward the ballroom.
"The photographer never made such a complaint."
Patricia lifted her chin.
"I was trying to prevent a problem."
I looked at her.
"You created one."
She turned toward Nia.
"Don't stand there like you didn't agree with me."
Nia went pale.
I watched her expression change.
"What are you talking about?"
Patricia laughed bitterly.
"You said yourself that the wheelchair would ruin the pictures."
Nia looked at me.
"Marcus, I was frustrated."
My chest tightened.
My father quietly folded his hands.
I could see how exhausted he looked.
This was supposed to be one of the happiest days of his life.
Instead, he was sitting in a hallway listening to two women debate who deserved more blame for humiliating him.
I turned toward the hotel manager, who had appeared near the elevator.
"Mr. Collins?"
He approached quickly.
"Yes, Mr. Holloway?"
"Please arrange a quiet room for my father."
"Of course."
My father shook his head.
"Son, I'm fine."
I knelt beside him.
"Dad, you shouldn't have to listen to this."
He looked at me.
"Neither should you."
I squeezed his hand.
Mr. Collins guided us toward a private lounge near the lobby.
But before we reached it, Patricia stepped in front of me.
"Marcus, think about what you're doing."
I stopped.
She lowered her voice.
"You and Nia have been together for four years."
"I know."
"She loves you."
I glanced at Nia.
She was standing several feet away, crying.
I had loved her, too.
I still felt something for her.
That was what made everything so painful.
Patricia continued.
"Are you really going to destroy four years because of an unfortunate comment?"
I stared at her.
"Your daughter didn't accidentally say something hurtful."
Patricia looked away.
"She deliberately humiliated my father."
"She apologized."
I shook my head.
"An apology doesn't erase what happened."
Nia walked toward me.
"Marcus, please let me explain."
I looked at her.
"Then explain."
She took a trembling breath.
"My mother kept telling me the wedding had to look perfect. Every detail was supposed to be flawless."
I waited.
"And when I saw Arthur's wheelchair beside the aisle, I panicked."
My chest tightened.
"Why?"
She looked down.
"Because I thought people would focus on it instead of me."
The honesty stunned me.
I stared at her.
"You were afraid my father's wheelchair would take attention away from you?"
Tears ran down her cheeks.
"I know how awful that sounds."
"It is awful."
She covered her face.
"I don't know what I was thinking."
I looked toward my father.
He had heard her.
His expression was almost impossible to bear.
He wasn't angry.
He looked heartbroken.
Nia followed my gaze.
She approached him slowly.
"Arthur, please forgive me."
My father studied her.
Then he asked a question that silenced everyone.
"If I didn't own this building, would you still be apologizing?"
Nia froze.
The silence stretched.
Finally, she whispered, "Yes."
My father nodded.
"I hope that's true."
He looked at me.
"Marcus, take me somewhere quiet."
I turned the wheelchair toward the lounge.
This time, nobody followed us.
Inside, Mr. Collins brought my father water and asked whether he needed medical assistance.
Arthur shook his head.
"I'm just tired."
I sat beside him.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then he looked at me.
"Son, I never wanted my money to become the reason someone respected me."
I swallowed.
"I know."
He looked down at his hands.
"When your mother got sick, I promised her I'd take care of you."
My eyes filled with tears.
"You did."
He smiled sadly.
"I thought today I was watching you begin a new family."
I reached for his hand.
"You still have one."
He squeezed my fingers.
"Yes. I do."
Then he looked toward the door.
"But I need you to ask yourself something."
"What?"
"Before today, did Nia ever show you who she really was?"
I opened my mouth.
Then stopped.
Because suddenly, I remembered something.
Three months earlier, Nia had complained about an elderly waiter moving too slowly at a restaurant.
Six weeks earlier, she had mocked a woman using a walker at a charity event.
And during our final wedding rehearsal, she had told me that my father's wheelchair should be placed somewhere less noticeable.
Each time, I had dismissed it.
Each time, I had told myself she was stressed.
I looked at my father.
He watched me quietly.
I felt my stomach drop.
The truth was worse than I wanted to admit.
Nia hadn't suddenly become cruel that morning.
May you like
She had been showing me pieces of herself for months.
And I had chosen not to see them.
