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My mother once had a customer who was engaged to be married.

She was a sweet, beautifully dressed young woman who was always angling her left hand so her sparkling diamond engagement ring caught the light. She had her cards read every few months and was always early, and she spoke to me like I was a grown-up, not an awkward child, and didn’t require me to say much as she chatted, an endless stream of bubbly detail about her forthcoming wedding, the dress, the bouquets, you know the sort of thing. She glowed with anticipation.

She said it was a shame she would have to give up work with the public service but “the marriage bar” was still in place at the time, which meant she was required to relinquish her job straight after the wedding. (I know. I can’t believe it either.)

I got so caught up in the excitement over this wedding that Mum ended up taking me to the church to watch. It was my first wedding. When the bride and groom kissed I felt faint with the romance of it.

The woman stopped coming for regular readings after that, and I must admit I forgot about her existence, until one day, maybe a year later, I saw her at the shops. I nearly didn’t recognize her. She looked completely different: drab, slumped shoulders, a cardigan that didn’t fit or flatter her. She smiled and waved but didn’t want to talk. I thought, Is that what happens when you can’t work? Is that what happens when you get married?

She died three years after her wedding. There was a house fire. Her husband made it out. He was never charged with her murder, but I heard a lot of talk I wasn’t meant to hear.

Once, I asked my mother, “Did you tell her not to marry him? Did you see this happening?”

I probably sounded accusing.

She said, “I can’t make anyone do anything, Cherry, and I don’t always get it right.”

I don’t think she saw it.

I don’t think anyone at that beautiful wedding could have seen it.