My sister invited me to her wedding.

Six years ago, we stopped speaking. I never thought I'd go back.

Then the invitation arrived with two words I couldn't ignore.

Plus Guest.

I don't have one.

Now I'm returning to the Connecticut home I left behind, where old wounds never really healed and every familiar face has a question I don't want to answer.

The only person willing to come with me is my seventy-year-old neighbor, whose quiet wisdom has a way of uncovering truths I've spent years avoiding.

I thought I was going home for a wedding.

Instead, I'm about to discover that the hardest vows aren't spoken at the altar. They're the ones we make to forgive, to let go, and to find our way back home.