My father’s voice joined in on the speakerphone, a united front of suburban judgment. “That man is damaged goods, Serena. His mother was a drunk who dumped him at a bus station like a sack of unwanted clothes when he was eight. What kind of worthless stock does that make him? You’re better than this garbage.”
“He isn’t garbage, Dad. He’s the man I love. He’s an electrician, he’s a homeowner, he’s—”
“He’s a dead end,” my father snapped. “We didn’t work this hard to watch you throw your life away on a dented can from the grocery store. We’re sending the invitation back, and we’ve told Mitchell and Audrey to stay away. We won’t be part of this mistake.”
I hung up. The call had lasted fourteen minutes. It takes fourteen minutes to dismantle a daughter’s heart, it seems. Nathan was standing now, his arms open, a sanctuary I didn’t deserve but desperately needed.
“What did they say?” he asked quietly.
“They called you trash,” I whispered into his chest. “They said your mother’s abandonment made you worthless. They said you were damaged goods.”
I felt him stiffen, then that careful blankness he wore—a mask he’d perfected at eight years old—slid into place.
“Serena,” he said, taking my face in his hands. “Some people are too small to see past their own fear. Do you want to call it off?”
“Absolutely not,” I said, the fire finally catching in my gut. “I’m marrying you, Nathan. With or without them.”
But as I said it, I realized I was walking toward a future my family had promised to burn.
Chapter 2: The Bus Station Ghost
To understand why my parents were so afraid of Nathan, you have to understand the night of August 23, 2002.
Nathan remembers the details with a terrifying, crystalline clarity. He was eight years old. His mother, Joanna, was twenty-six and drowning in a sea of cheap vodka and bad decisions. She had taken him to the Worcester Greyhound Station. She bought him a king-size Snickers bar—a rare luxury—and sat him down on the blue plastic seats at Gate 6.
“Wait here,” she told him. “I’ll be right back.”
