Chapter 6: Bring a Pen

On Monday evening Mom brought out the invitations.

There were a hundred and forty of them, cream cardstock with a gold edge, stacked in a shoebox on the dining table.

"Joanna Brennan and Brett Hollander," the top one read, "request the honor of your presence on June fourteenth."

My name was printed in curling script.

It was the last time it would look so good.

"I'll mail them tomorrow with the rest of the post," Mom said. "Dawn did the envelopes. Her handwriting's so much nicer than mine."

"Let me do it," I said.

She looked up from the teapot.

"Do what?"

"Mail them. I want to drop them off myself. It's my wedding."

I watched her think about it.

She answered fast, but I'd learned to watch her hands, and they closed around the lid of the shoebox.

"The post office is a long line on a Tuesday," she said. "I'll take care of it, Joanna. That's what I'm here for."

"Mom."

"Honestly, you can't even keep track of your own bills."

"Then let's vote on it," I said.

She laughed, but her eyes went to Dad's chair.

Dad was in the next room with the game on, and he had heard every word.

"Frank?"

"Let her take them," he called back. "It's a shoebox."

"It's a hundred and forty invitations."

"Then she'll take it slowly."

Mom's mouth thinned.

She slid the shoebox across the table with one finger.

I took it.

I carried it upstairs to my old bedroom, closed the door, and sat on the floor with the box on my knees.

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