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3 days before my wedding, Dad called: “I’m not walking you down the aisle. Your sister says it would upset her.” Mom agreed: “Just walk alone. It’s not a big deal.” On my wedding day, I didn’t walk alone.
My sister Isabella had sent it the week before. It was expensive, beautiful, and already dying because it had no roots. “It is just about being sensitive right now, Penny,” my father said.
His voice came through the speakerphone resting on my potting bench, small and hollow against the glass walls. Outside, the Bozeman wind rattled the panes, sweeping over the Montana fields with a dry, unforgiving chill. “Izzy is hitting a rough patch with Preston,” he continued.
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