“How’s it look?” the bride-to-be asked, twirling around in a white frill tornado. No response, as usual. She sighed and looked at her mother lying on the bed. Various tubes protruded from her body and connected to equally various machines around the room. She had tried very hard to have her mother involved in this as much as possible, no matter her response. Or lack thereof. She sat on the edge of the bed, stroking her mother’s wrinkled hand; a tear slipped down her cheek and scarred the virgin dress.

“It’s okay,” she told her mother, hoping to convince herself.