ON MY SON’S WEDDING MORNING, OUR FAMILY DRIVER PUSHED ME INTO THE TRUNK AND THREW A BLANKET OVER …

Frederick’s voice came calm from the driver’s seat.

“You want me to pull over, sir?”

“No, I’ll just…”

Blake answered, his voice clipped.

“Hello.”

I couldn’t hear the other person.

But I heard Blake’s response.

“I told you not to call this number.”

His voice dropped low.

Not angry.

Scared.

Actually scared.

“I told you I’d handle it. Stop calling me.”

He hung up fast.

The car felt suddenly smaller.

Tighter.

“Everything all right, Mr. Blake?” Frederick asked, his tone perfectly neutral.

Blake forced a laugh, but it came out hollow.

“Yeah, yeah. Just wedding stress. You know how it is.”

“Of course, sir.”

But I could hear it.

The tremor underneath Blake’s words.

The way his breathing had quickened.

The way he shifted in his seat like he couldn’t get comfortable.

My son was scared.

And he was lying.

To Frederick.

To himself.

Maybe even to me, if I’d been sitting beside him instead of hiding like a fugitive beneath a blanket.

Who was that?

I wanted to scream.

Who’s calling you?

What aren’t you telling me?

But I stayed silent.

Frozen.

Listening.

Frederick’s voice came again, gentle.

“You sure you’re all right, sir?”

“I’m fine, Fred.”

Blake’s voice cracked on the word fine.

“Just let’s get to the church. I need to marry Natasha. Everything will be fine once I marry her.”

Once I marry her.

Like marriage was a finish line.

A solution.

A way to make something stop.

My chest felt like someone had wrapped a band around it and pulled tight.

What are you running from, Blake?

And why do you think marrying Natasha will save you?

The car kept moving.

And I kept listening.

The car slowed.

Then turned.

I felt the shift in direction—the pull to the left when we should have been going straight.

Even hidden beneath the blanket, I’d memorized the route to the cathedral.

My husband’s funeral had been held there.

Blake’s baptism.

Every major moment of our family’s life had happened in that building.

“This isn’t the way, Fred,” Blake’s voice carried uncertainty. “Where are we going?”

“Slight detour, sir,” Frederick answered smoothly.

Blake’s phone chimed.

A text message alert.

“Oh.”

Blake’s tone shifted.

Relief mixed with concern.

“It’s Natasha. She says… hang on.”

I heard him reading aloud, the way he always did when he was stressed.

“Emergency at friend’s house. Need you to pick me up before church.”

He paused.