🆗My parents left two empty vineyard chairs to support my sister in Bali

 

The envelope glue had a bitter, chemical taste that lingered on my tongue. I pressed the flap of the thirty-fourth bridal shower invitation down against the marble kitchen island, my thumb leaving a faint, damp print on the heavy cream paper.

My mother, Helen, stood near the sink, polishing a silver serving tray she had not used in five years. She adjusted her pearl necklace, her fingers sliding over the center bead three times in a fast, familiar rhythm.

“Madison called from her apartment this morning,” she said, her voice rising into its usual high, fluttering register. “She finally booked her flights for the wellness retreat.”

“That is wonderful,” I said, sliding another invitation toward myself. “She has been talking about taking a break after her gallery exhibit closed.”

“She is going to Bali,” my mother said, keeping her back to me as she rubbed the silver. “The departure date is the eighth of October. She will be gone for three weeks.”

I stopped with my hand on the next envelope. The white cardstock felt suddenly stiff between my fingers.

“October eighth,” I said, my voice dry. “Our wedding is on the fourteenth.”

“I know, Claire, but the booking was highly competitive,” she said, finally turning to face me. “The resort only has twelve villas, and this particular session is led by that spiritual guide she follows. It was the only slot available for the entire autumn.”

She set the tray down with a dull metallic clang that seemed to echo in the quiet kitchen.

“She will just have to come back early,” I said, twirling my silver engagement ring around my knuckle.

“She cannot simply fly back halfway through,” my mother said, her fingers returning to her pearls. “It is a silent retreat. Once you enter the compound, you are not permitted to leave without losing your deposit.”

She looked past my shoulder, out the window toward the manicured Seattle lawn.

“Your father is quite concerned about it,” she added.

I left the rest of the invitations unsealed on the counter and drove across the bridge to my parents’ house in Bellevue.

Author

 

  • Andrew Collins is a contributor who enjoys writing about everyday topics, people, and ideas that spark curiosity. His approach is simple and conversational, aiming to make stories easy to read and relatable. Outside of writing, Andrew follows current trends, enjoys long walks, and likes turning small observations into meaningful stories.

     

 

 

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