Page 136 of The Wrong Husband
“Oh sweetheart, you look radiant!” She folds me into her arms. I’m engulfed in Chanel No. 5. That scent is her—more than her voice, her clothes, even her smile. That’s what always lingered, long after she left a room.
And just like that, the dread I’ve carried—about this moment, this conversation—loosens its grip. I forget the phone calls I ignored. The birthdays I skipped. The quiet ache of absence. I forget that I rehearsed how to tell her about the elopement. Thanks to James, she already knows.
So, I let myself sink into the hug. “I missed you, Mom.” And when I whisper, “I’m sorry I didn’t call to tell you I was eloping,” I mean every word.
"Well then, it wouldn’t be eloping if you did." She kisses my cheek.
I hear the disappointment in her voice, though she’s trying to hide it.
"I didn’t mean to hurt you; things took on a life of their own, and?—"
"It felt easier to go with it.” She nods. “It’s easier to make sense after the fact, rather than when you’re in the midst of emotional turmoil.”
I step back and survey her features. I expected her to be upset that I didn’t inform her in advance of the wedding, but she doesn’t seem angry. A little sad maybe, but not as overcome as I expected her to be.
And she understands why I prefer to ride out events, rather than try to confront them.She and I are more similar than I realized.I swallow. She’d have understood what happened with Drew. I should have told her. I shouldn’t have resented her all these years and allowed my own insecurities to drive a wedge between us.
"Honey, we are so proud of you," my father says gently.
"Dad." I throw myself in his arms and am rewarded by that same bear hug that enchanted me growing up. Every time I was upset, or fell down and hurt myself, my father was there to comfort me.
"I’ve missed you, Dad." I swallow back my tears. I wonder if I’ve been hiding from my parents because of my insecurities.
"We’re so happy you found your life partner." My dad rubs soothing circles over my back.
"I’m sorry I didn’t tell you in advance."
"I’d have been more upset if Arthur”—my mother nods toward him—“hadn’t asked us to dinner to celebrate your wedding.”
"I’m glad you’re here," I say sincerely. "I should have called you anyway, to let you know about the wedding."
"You should have." My mother blinks rapidly. "I’m your mom. The woman who brought you up and?—"
"Now, Lana, we spoke about this." My father squeezes her shoulder.
To my surprise, my mother firms her lips. "I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so emotional." She pulls a handkerchief from her handbag and dabs under her eyes.
I wring my hands in distress. It’s typical that my mother makes this about herself, but perhaps, not having seen her in almost three years has given me some perspective. Now I realize, she's upset.
"I’d feel the same if I were in your shoes," I murmur.
She blinks, then looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. "I didn’t mean to barge in today and be a drama queen."
"I don’t think you could have stopped yourself," I say wryly.
Her lips twitch, and I’m sure she’s trying to stop herself from smiling.
Connor drapes his arm around my shoulders. I flinch—not because I don’t want his touch, but because it catches me offguard. Then the warmth of him seeps into me. That solid, unyielding weight grounding me. For the first time today, I feel like I’m not standing alone.
He extends his hand. “Mrs. Hamilton.”
My mother smiles as she takes it. Elegant as ever, composed as always.
Then he turns to my father. “Mr. Hamilton.”
My father grips his hand, eyes steady. “So, you’re the man my daughter chose.” A beat. “I trust you’ll take good care of her.”
“She’s everything to me,” Connor says quietly. “I’d burn the world down before I let anything touch her. She’ll never be alone again.”
