I was especially eager to see her brother Michael, flying from Portland. Fifty-one, divorced, with two daughters, he still insisted on reminding everyone that he taught me to ride a bicycle at seven. Daniel had encountered him only briefly at our grandmother’s funeral sixteen years earlier. Since then Michael had grown a beard, gone gray, begun wearing glasses, and lost thirty pounds. Recognition seemed unlikely.
Two weeks before the wedding, Daniel came for winter coats he had overlooked. Seeing Allison’s invitation while I sorted mail, he asked, “Allison’s getting married?”
