“Are you really going to create a financial problem for Amanda over one dinner?”
I leaned back.
That sentence clarified more than anything else had.
To Derek, my absence was one dinner.
My removal from walking my daughter down the aisle was an aesthetic adjustment.
My money, however, was a commitment.
“I’m not creating a financial problem,” I said.
“I’m declining to solve one you created by spending money you didn’t have.”
Amanda came back onto the line.
“Dad, please.”
Her voice had changed.
Now there was worry in it.
Not yet regret.
Worry.
“The flights are expensive,” she said.
“The hotel deposit is due.
We already chose everything.”
“Then you and Derek should choose what you can afford.”
“After you paid for an entire wedding?”
“Yes.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense to me.”
She started to cry—not loudly, but enough that I heard her breath catch.
My old instinct returned immediately.
Fix it.
Send the money.
Tell her everything was okay.
For three years, grief had made me terrified of losing anything else connected to Catherine.
Amanda knew that, even if she had never consciously used it.
Every disagreement ended the same way.
I bent first because being close to my daughter mattered more than being right.
But closeness that required me to accept humiliation wasn’t closeness.
“I wish Mom were here,” Amanda whispered.
That landed exactly where she knew it would.
I closed my eyes.
“So do I.
Every day.”
“She wouldn’t want us fighting before my wedding.”
“No.
She wouldn’t.”
Amanda sniffed.
“Then why are you doing this?”
“Because your mother also wouldn’t want you treating your father like a wallet with a seat assignment.”
Amanda stopped crying.
I almost regretted saying it.
Almost.
Then she said, “That’s unfair.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.
I love you.”
“I love you too.
That’s why this conversation matters.”
We stayed on the phone for nearly an hour.
At first, Amanda argued every individual point.
The rehearsal dinner was small.
The aisle decision was complicated.
