She strutted down the church aisle, her heels tapping out a staccato. I shuffled behind, choking down the fog of her perfume. Dad was slightly ahead of us.
Her blonde bob swayed across the shoulders of her red coat. I wished I had done something with my own hair, which was mousey brown like Dad’s.
My family and friends nodded in our direction as we took our seats in the front pew. She placed her new leather tote between us, a designer barricade paid for with Dad’s money.
Dad was in front of the altar now, cased in elaborately decorated oak.