“It’s not too late,” Jack told me as we were leaving the church where we were supposed to get married. But didn’t. Because he’d had an anxiety attack five minutes after the organist began playing. I told my mother not to hire an organist. “They’re gloomy,” I said. “It’s too Phantom of the Opera. Jeez, why not a string quartet?”
My mother flipped her hand back and forth in the “whatever” way she had. So infuriating. “Your father and I had an organ playing the wedding procession at our wedding. What’s wrong with a little tradition?”
Why had I given in to her? Because arguing with her is like being on a bicycle with a monster SUV bearing down on you, that’s why. You’re not going to win and you’ll get bloodied and lame in the process.
—from a story collection, Fractures, in progress