My daughter slipped an invitation into my hand, and when I unfolded the paper it seemed to melt like sunrise on the Thames; I nearly lost consciousness.
By some twist of fate I had twice walked down the aisle. The first union gave me a daughter, Poppy; the second, a son. My first wife never wanted a childshe was unable to nurture a life. I wanted Poppy to grow up with a proper childhood, so I called my former spouse, begging her to send Poppy back to me. My new wife, a gentle woman from a cottage in Surrey, agreed to claim Poppy as her own.
When Poppy was seventeen she drifted into our flat and whispered that she was carrying a child. The boy who was to be the father vanished like fog the moment he heard the news. We offered no reproach, no chastisement; we simply welcomed Poppy and the unborn baby into our small London kitchen. My wife suggested we register Poppy as a resident of our flat, so she could have a proper address.
Poppy remained without work until her son entered a nursery in Camden. My wife raised the little boy as if he were hers, loving him with the same fierce devotion she gave to our own son. She never drew a line between them, her affection spilling over both equally.
A year slipped by like a tide of lavender clouds. Poppy met another man, and they first moved into a cramped attic flat before deciding to marry. Every practical detail of the weddingflowers that sang, candles that floatedfell to my wifes capable shoulders. Poppy only handled the dispatch of the invitations, sending them out on paper that fluttered like moths.
When the invitations arrived, I could barely keep my footing on the cobblestones of my mind. In the end only my name appeared on the card; my wifes name was nowhere to be seen. Imagine my bewilderment, as if a wind had stripped the sky of its stars. I felt so disoriented I did not know which path to follow. My wife had poured her heart into raising Poppy, had coordinated the entire celebration, yet my daughter seemed to ignore her entirely.
I stood by my wife. On the wedding day I went to the register office in Kensington, offered my congratulations to the newlywed couple, and then drifted home. I never crossed the threshold of the banquet hall, letting its doors close behind a dream that was already fading.
