Wedding Preparation
1081 Words
The next morning, Marissa woke to the sound of someone knocking like they were trying to beat the door off its hinges. Groggy and feeling far from refreshed, she dragged herself up and opened it—only to find her mother standing there, arms crossed.
“Hope you didn’t forget our appointment for today,” Mrs. Joel said. “I want you downstairs in thirty minutes. We have a lot to do.”
And just like that, she turned and marched away, leaving Marissa blinking in mild irritation.
Twenty-five minutes later, Marissa came down the stairs, looking as put-together as someone who slept through dinner could manage. She bent down, kissed her father’s cheek, and dropped into her seat.
“I own your entire day today, Marissa. No excuses,” her mother said between bites. “We’re doing everything on my list. Keep that in mind.”
By the time breakfast was over, mother and daughter were already gathering their things. And then they were off.
Hours later—somewhere close to four—both women dragged themselves back into the house. They looked like they had survived a war, not a shopping trip. Mr. Joel, comfortably parked in the massage chair, perked up when he heard them.
“So… how was the day?” he asked brightly.
Silence.
“Did it go well, or did it not go well?” he tried again.
His wife finally shot back, “Why don’t you ask your darling daughter?” before storming off.
He blinked, then turned to Marissa.
“Hey, darling. What’s up?” he asked, getting up to help her with the tiny shopping bag she carried.
Marissa sighed. “Well… remind me to never go shopping with Mom again.” She held out the bag. “Here. I got you a suit for the wedding tomorrow.”
“Oh? Thank you,” he said, taking it gently. “You want to talk?”
“No. I’m exhausted.”
He snorted. “I was just being polite… but too bad. We’re talking. In your room.”
He wrapped an arm around her and started walking her toward the stairs.
“You spent the whole day with your mother—spare a few minutes for your old man.”
Once they reached her room, they dropped the mountain of shopping bags and sank onto the couch like two people who had just climbed Everest.
“So…” her father said, stretching an arm along the back of the couch, “talk to me.”
Marissa let out a breath. “Okay, so when Mom said we were going shopping, I already knew I’d have to make a ton of compromises. Our styles don’t just differ—they’re in different galaxies. I compromised on my nails, my hair, the jewelry, the shoes, the dresses—”
“So basically everything?” Mr. Joel cut in.
She gave him a flat look. “Well… yeah.”
She tucked her legs under herself and continued. “And while I was sacrificing my entire identity, we went to the spa—which, might I add, I hate. I only ever go when I’m practically falling apart. But anyway, during the whole pampering marathon, she was over the moon. She kept saying how happy she was to do all these things with me.”
Her voice softened a little. “So I made this tiny comment about us having different tastes. Tiny. And suddenly she’s asking if I don’t like anything she picked.”
“And?” her father asked.
“And I told her no—it’s not that. I just said that since it made her happy, I’d accept them for her. And boom—she exploded. Said I was basically calling her taste bad.”
Mr. Joel winced.
Marissa threw her hands up. “I tried to explain! I said she doesn’t have bad taste—she just has her taste and I have mine. Her choices are pretty, they’re just not for me. But she didn’t want to hear that.”
She slumped back dramatically. “So yeah… that was my day.”
“You know,” her father began gently, “you and your mother have never really gotten along. Even when you were little. Different ideas, different tastes… everything. And she knows that. Maybe that’s why she’s upset. Maybe even sad.”
He sighed. “There were times we donated to the orphanage and everything you offered up were things she bought for you. That used to hurt her, you know.”
Silence settled—heavy.
“I get it,” Marissa murmured. “But then she had Martin… and now she has no one.”
Another stretch of quiet.
“But I do want her to be happy. If not for that, nothing on earth would make me accept something I don’t want.”
Mr. Joel nodded and squeezed her hand. “About the wedding… you understand why we’re pushing this, right?”
“Should I?” she asked, voice low.
“Marissa,” he said, tone sharpening just a little, “you’ve done enough. You can’t keep chasing someone who doesn’t want to be found… or something that doesn’t exist. That’s what breaks your mother—and me. She thinks you’re carrying everything alone. It’s been over ten years. It’s time to let go. Start a life with Antonio. Please?”
“…Okay, Dad.”
Their hands stayed locked for a moment, both of them sharing the same sad half-smile.
Mr. Joel finally stood. “Well, I’d better go check on your mother.”
Marissa raised a brow. “Honestly, you should’ve gone to her first.”
He chuckled. “We’re giving you out tomorrow. Thought I should see you and say my goodbyes.”
She scoffed. “Goodbyes? Already chasing me out? You’re going to miss me.”
“I highly doubt that,” he teased, heading for the door.
“Wait.”
She stopped him and dug through one of her many bags before pulling out a small package. “Here. I got this for your wife.”
He took it, eyes softening. “This will make her happy. And here’s a secret—” he leaned in slightly, whispering, “she always loves the things you pick out for her.”
Then he left, closing the door behind him.
The moment it clicked shut, Marissa dropped back onto the couch, utterly exhausted—physically, mentally, everything.
- Writer
