The night I found out I had not been invited to my own daughter’s rehearsal dinner, I was standing in my kitchen in Portland, Oregon, folding the check I had just written for fifty eight thousand dollars. It was the final payment for Amanda’s wedding. The last installment in a series of installments that had, over the preceding months, consumed a portion of my retirement savings, the proceeds from selling Catherine’s vintage Mercedes, and a quantity of optimism I could not actually afford to spend. I had covered the venue, the catering, the photographer, the flowers, the band, the linens, the cake, the favors, and every item Amanda had circled in the glossy bridal magazines she had been collecting since she was twelve years old and first decided that her future wedding would be the most important event in the history of human celebration.My late wife, Catherine, would have loved to see that day.

She would have cried during the ceremony and laughed at herself for crying and then cried again when she saw Amanda in the dress. She would have danced with me to whatever song the band played and whispered something funny in my ear that made me snort at an inappropriate volume. She would have been there, and because she could not be, I had been trying to be there enough for both of us. I was doing it for her. I was doing it for the version of Amanda who used to sit on my lap and tell me she was going to marry a prince and I would be invited to the castle.I called Amanda to confirm the deposit had gone through. “Hey, sweetheart,” I said when she picked up. “Just letting you know the Riverside Gardens payment cleared. You’re all set for Saturday.”