Her parents lived in a brick house on a tree-lined street, the kind of house where everything had a place and the same photographs had occupied the mantel for years. Mr. Miller greeted me at the door with a firm handshake and immediately asked whether I could help him move a cabinet in the dining room. He treated me like family and had for a long time. I followed him inside, grateful for a practical task that did not require me to pretend I knew what was happening between his daughter and me.
Mrs. Miller was baking an apple pie, and the kitchen smelled of cinnamon and butter. She hugged Sarah, then hugged me, and asked whether we had decided on the color of the bridesmaids' dresses. Sarah said we were still considering options, although I had seen the final order confirmation two days earlier. I did not correct her, because the discrepancy seemed unimportant, and because I had grown tired of feeling like every ordinary conversation had the potential to turn into an argument.
Her uncle Robert arrived with his wife shortly after five. He was a successful real estate investor and had a habit of turning family dinners into informal career interviews, but I liked him. He spoke plainly, remembered what people told him, and listened to an answer before asking another question. When he heard about my promotion, he clapped me on the shoulder and wanted to know how my team had grown.
"Seven people now," I told him as we sat in the living room waiting for dinner. "It's a little strange managing some of the same people I worked beside last year. I'm learning as I go."
"That's how most decent managers learn," he said. "The bad ones think the title means they know everything."
Sarah sat across from me, scrolling through her phone. I wished she would join the conversation because she used to enjoy discussing work with Robert. When he asked about her promotion, she gave a quick answer, mentioned a major client presentation, and returned to her screen. Robert looked at her for a moment, then changed the subject.
Dinner was roast chicken, vegetables, and the sort of mashed potatoes that make everybody return for a second helping. The table was crowded with stories about work, family, and the wedding. Mrs. Miller reminded us that the florist needed a final appointment, and I said I would put it on our calendar. Sarah's fork stopped for a moment, then continued moving.
"Alex is always prepared," her mother said with affectionate amusement. "If I had organized my wedding the way he organizes things, we might have remembered to pick up the flowers."
I smiled and said that somebody had to make sure the details were handled. Sarah gave me a glance that was difficult to read. I thought she might be irritated by the joke, or perhaps by having our future discussed in front of everyone. In hindsight, I think she was hearing the whole table praise a life she had already decided she no longer wanted.