I learned my family wasn't coming to my wedding from a text shorter than a shopping list.
It came through at 9:14 that morning. My tie was still hanging over the back of the hotel chair, and I was standing there in my undershirt, trying to talk myself out of being nervous. Twelve words from my mother — after thirty-one years of her knowing exactly who I am.
"We won't make it. Please don't take it personally."
That was all of it. No apology. No reason. Not even the respect of a phone call — just one sentence tossed aside like junk mail. I read it three times, waiting for a follow-up message to arrive. The real one. The one that would tell me about an accident, a cancelled flight, something enormous enough to justify the first one.
It never came.
Marcus, my best man, was by the window overlooking downtown Milwaukee, fixing his cuff, when he caught my reflection in the glass and saw my face.
"What happened?"
"My family isn't coming."
He turned to face me. "All of them?"
I gave a slow nod. "My parents. Caleb. Natalie. Uncle Paul. The cousins."
Marcus looked at me the way you look at someone who just told you water isn't wet. "Call them."
My eyes went to the ballroom schedule spread out on the desk. In less than an hour, I was going to marry Mara.
"No."
"Ethan—"
"I'm not spending my wedding morning begging people to tell me why they decided not to come."