The classroom smelled like poster paint and slightly damp coats, the particular combination that meant the morning had been productive and the children had not entirely stayed within the lines. Twenty-two small chairs were occupied with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Some sat with their hands folded, performing attention. Others leaned sideways into their neighbors. One boy in the back had his shoe off and was examining it with the focused interest of a scientist who had just made a discovery.
I stood at the front and looked at them all and felt something pull tight behind my ribs.
Three days to the wedding.
I had not intended to say anything. I had planned to get through the day the way I had been getting through everything lately, efficiently and without ceremony, one careful hour in
