So I did not.
Instead, I went grocery shopping for myself. I bought eggs, coffee, chicken, strawberries, a frozen pizza, and a chocolate cake from a bakery in Davidson that usually had a wedding waitlist. I put the cake in my freezer and promised myself that Friday evening, no matter what happened, I would eat a slice at my own table.
While I was putting groceries away, my phone rang.
Mom.
I let it go to voicemail.
She called again.
Then again.
Then my father.
Then Keaton.
Then Mom again.
By noon, I had six voicemails.
The first was sweet.
“Arden, honey, call me. We are not upset. We just need to talk about groceries.”
The second
was tight.
“Arden, ignoring your mother is childish.”
The third was sharper.
“Your father is furious, and I am trying to protect you from that.”
The fourth was the one I saved in three separate places.
