Dylan’s parents tried to talk to mine. They didn’t get far.

That night, back in my childhood bedroom, I didn’t cry.

I just stared at the thank-you cards we’d written in advance and thought, How did we get here?

Then my phone buzzed.

A message from Dylan: “You seriously can’t take a joke? You’re so uptight.”

I stared at the screen, then blocked his number without replying.

The next morning, my dad asked me to be present for something. “You deserve to hear it for yourself,” he said.