The Hand That Wouldn’t Let Go
“Don’t go.” Liam’s fingers closed around mine with purpose. His bow tie hung loose; his eyes were red. Without ceremony, he drew me back through the groaning doors. Then he stepped onto the little stage, took the microphone, and in one trembling sentence, changed the temperature of the room.
“This wedding is over.”
Gasps like breaking glass. Cassandra’s smile froze. Her father rose in outrage; waiters halted mid-pour.
Liam’s voice was steel. “You mocked the one person who has loved me selflessly—who fed me, raised me, believed in me when it was inconvenient. This quilt holds my story. You laughed at it. You laughed at us. Keep the gifts, the venue, the fireworks. I won’t build a life on contempt.”
He turned, still holding my hand. “Come on, Grandma. Let’s go home.”
