This particular disaster began in my parents’ living room.

“Grandma!”

Emma’s voice shoots through the house with all the subtlety of a fire alarm.

“I’m upstairs, doll!”

I hear the pounding of footsteps immediately.

A few seconds later, she bursts through my bedroom door, pigtails bouncing and yellow dress swirling around her knees like someone gave a Disney princess an energy drink and released her into the wild.

She stops when she sees me.

“Grandma.” She puts her hands on her hips.

Oh boy. I know that look.

“Yes?”

“Can you tell me the story?”

I narrow my eyes.

That could mean almost anything.

Emma believes I lived through every significant historical event since the invention of fire.

“Which story, doll?”

“Your wedding.”

Ah.

I should have known.

I know exactly who put her up to this.

“Your mother told you to ask me, didn’t she?”

Emma nods enthusiastically.

Traitor.

I smile anyway.

“Which wedding?”

Her little eyebrows pull together.

“Your wedding.”

“Yes. Which one?” I ask.

Silence.

I watch the gears turn.

Finally, her eyes widen.

“You had more than one wedding?”

I lean back against the pillows.

“Oh, sweetheart, I actually had three.”

Her mouth falls open.

“THREE?”

“Three.”

She stares at me.

Her voice drops to a whisper. “Does Grandpa know?”

I lose it.

I laugh so hard I have to put a hand against my stomach.

“Yes, doll. I’m pretty sure Grandpa knows.”

Emma’s eyes get even bigger.

I pat the space beside me.

“Come and sit by me, and I will tell you all about it.”

She scrambles onto the bed and curls against my side. Judging by the look on her face, she believes that her grandma is about to give some scandalous confession about her secret collection of husbands.

I look down at her.

Funny what the mind decides to keep.

I can remember split times from races I ran decades ago, but last week I spent ten minutes looking for my glasses while they were sitting on top of my head.

But this?

I remember this.

Sure, some of the details are gone, but the feeling isn’t.

I remember the nerves. The cameras. And mostly thinking the whole thing was completely ridiculous.

Emma rests her head against my shoulder.

I think about where to begin.

There are several reasonable places.

The first wedding.

The television show.

But none of those things would have happened without one person.

“Naturally,” I tell Emma, “your Aunt Emily was involved.”

Emma grins.

“She could talk me into almost anything.”

I adored Emily. Always had.

And she knew it.

Which was the problem.

Emily had a gift. An incredibly irritating one.

I could tell Emily no five times and somehow, ten minutes later, I’d be doing exactly what she wanted.

And in the fall of 2024, Emily had decided she knew exactly what I needed.

This particular disaster began in my parents’ living room.