“I don’t think I love him anymore.”

This is after I’ve been holding in my breath for three and a half hours, fifty-seven year old body jammed into a dress meant for someone with better dietary discipline. This is as I’m putting a veil on her head and wishing I could do it faster so she wouldn’t see me start to cry. This is on what should be the most special day in my daughter’s life.

“Don’t say that,” I tell her.

“But I don’t.”

“You do.”

“You don’t know how I feel.”

“Of course I do, honey. I’ve been married six times. I’m a veteran. I’ve been through this. This always happens. Each time. Each time, just before, just right before the big moment, this always happens. You meet someone new. Run into someone old. Whatever. You think you feel something, you think there’s a pull. You think you fall in love. You think, ‘I can’t marry so-and-so because I love this other person.’ This is normal. People have too much love to give to just one person. Don’t worry about it. This is life. This is marriage. This is why it’s so difficult. Because nobody’s ever ready.”

She thinks it over.

“He beats me.”

“Nobody's perfect.”