While I moved Ethan and myself into a studio apartment that smelled of damp drywall to save $400 a month, Claire debated between a live band or a string quartet.
Then came the call in July.
“Emily, honey,” my mother chirped. “We need to order the bridesmaid dresses. Since you’re in the bridal party, you need to send your measurements. The dress is $300.”
I stared at the pile of unpaid pharmacy receipts. “$300? Mom, that’s two weeks of Ethan’s heart medication. I can’t.”
The silence on the line was sharp. “Emily, this is your sister’s wedding. Don’t be selfish.”
“Selfish?” My voice trembled. “My son is dying. We missed the window for the experimental treatment because I couldn’t raise the money. Now we are just trying to keep him comfortable. I don’t have $300 for a dress I’ll wear once.”
“You’re always talking about Ethan’s expenses,” she snapped, her mask slipping. “I understand he’s sick, but life goes on for the rest of us. You need to learn to manage your money better.”
I declined to be a bridesmaid.
My mother told the extended family I was “too jealous of Claire’s happiness” to participate.
In September, Ethan took a turn for the worse. His lips turned a terrifying shade of blue that became permanent. He stopped asking to play with his Legos. He stopped talking about growing up to be an astronaut. He knew.
That same weekend, Claire had her bachelorette party in Napa Valley. My mother later told me it cost $10,000.
“It was magical,” she gushed. “Worth every penny to see Claire smile.”
I looked at my son, who hadn’t smiled in three days because breathing took all his energy.
“I’m glad she smiled,” I said, my voice dead.
I was no longer sad. I was calcifying. I was turning into stone, layer by layer.
Ethan died on a Tuesday morning in late October.
He slipped away quietly, holding my hand, three days before Claire’s wedding.
The silence that followed the stopping of the oxygen machine was the loudest noise I have ever heard. I didn’t scream. I just leaned my forehead against his cooling hand and whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you.”
I called my parents.
“Oh, no,” my mother gasped. “Oh, Emily. No.”
For a second, I thought I heard grief.
“What terrible timing,” she whispered.
I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. “Timing?”
“The wedding is Sunday,” she said, panic rising in her voice. “We fly out to Italy tomorrow night. The guests are arriving. We can’t… Emily, we can’t cancel.”
