The Step Stool
During the ceremony, Mia cried before I did.
She’d insisted her makeup would survive anything. When her first tear fell, I raised my eyebrows.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
“Didn’t say a word.”
Her laugh steadied me enough to finish my vows.
She held my hands while she said hers.
Outside afterward, people hugged us and caught Mia’s veil when the wind lifted it. I kept looking at her ring.
Then her mother joined the photographer.
“Perhaps Howard should be closer to the front.”
“I’m fine here,” I said.
She ignored me and looked at Mia. “Otherwise, we might lose him behind everyone.”
“She’s arranging us, Mom,” Mia said, indicating the photographer.
I felt that familiar hesitation.
I could object and risk making the moment about my height, or stay quiet, and resent myself afterward.
Mia turned toward me before I could choose.
“We’re married, Howard.”
“Too late to change your mind.”
She squeezed my hand.
“Never.”
Then her mother appeared carrying a wooden step stool.
She set it beside me.
“Howard, stand on this. It’ll make the photos look better.”
The conversation around us stopped.
I swear I could hear the photographer adjusting her camera strap.
For a moment, I considered stepping up.
One photograph, then we could move on.
I hated how quickly that bargain came to me.
Mia’s smile disappeared.
She stared at the stool, then looked at her mother with an expression I’d never seen before.
Her mother saw it, too.
“Mia,” she said carefully. “I was only trying to—”
Mia stepped onto the stool herself.
She held out her hand to me.
“There. Take our picture.”
The photographer lifted her camera.
“Don’t you dare!” Betty stepped forward, blocking the shot. “Mia, enough! After everything you’ve already made me change, you’ll ruin this, too?”
May you like
Mia’s fingers tightened.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
