I had shiny red shoes, with buckles, for my cousin’s wedding. I remember it was cold and holding Dad’s hand tight.
The church smelled mouldy and old, and the organ sounded wheezy and off key.
Nothing happened for a very long time. Then a man in a white dress came from somewhere and started to talk in a voice that came through his sharp blade of a nose.
I didn’t understand what he said, but Dad looked down at me.
“We can go home now.”
It was ten years before I understood that that wasn’t what weddings were usually like.