Walking Down the Aisle
The wedding march began. The double doors opened. Guests rose to their feet. I walked forward because that’s what you do — you trust your mother, even when you don’t understand why.
Halfway down the aisle, my legs wobbled. My heart hammered. Ryan stood at the altar, smiling as though nothing could go wrong. But something already had.
Finally, I let myself fall. Gasps echoed through the hall as my body hit the carpet. My mother rushed toward me, her voice urgent: “Her ankle! Stop the ceremony! Call for medical help!”
Ryan and his mother, Patricia, hurried forward too — but their faces didn’t show concern. They showed panic. Sharp, tight panic. Panic that had nothing to do with my ankle.
