After Our Dad Died, My Older Brother with Down Syndrome Offered to Walk Me Down the Aisle
A bride believed that she would have to walk down the aisle without her father if she lost him.
Then her older brother, who has Down syndrome, discreetly offered to replace him. Everyone thought it was a great idea, but her future mother-in-law objected, so the bride changed the wedding in private.
I was asked by my brother if he could take over for Dad.
After an hour of sitting in the kitchen, he continued to start and end phrases.
When something is important to him, Nathan acts in that way.
After glancing at the table and rubbing his thumb on the side of his mug three times, he will say, “So…”
before deciding that perhaps the matter can wait.
It couldn’t that evening.
“Can I do Dad’s job? At the wedding.”
I assumed he meant distributing programs.
“What job?” I inquired.
He gave me the impression that I was purposefully moving slowly.
“I mean walking you,” he said. “Down the middle part.”
the aisle.
Dad had been gone for eleven months.
Nathan is thirty-one. He and Dad were inseparable, and he has Down syndrome.
In the garage on Saturdays.
The same cup of coffee.
They were the only ones who laughed at the same awful jokes.
The majority of Nathan’s time used to be spent with Dad.
Nathan learned from Dad how to make grilled cheese without scorching the pan, sharpen garden equipment, and change the oil.
Nathan, meantime, showed Dad the value of not taking himself too seriously.
There was a silence in both of us after Dad passed away.
I hadn’t allowed myself to consider who would accompany me to the rear of that church for eleven months since each response was incorrect.
Patrick, uncle?
Too clear.
Mother?
Before we got to the first pew, she would start crying.
Strolling by yourself?
It is feasible.
However, I noticed who was missing at the end of each version.
Nathan then inquired.
I covered my lips with my hand.
He held out.
“Sarah?”
Speaking had not yet begun, so I nodded.
“Yes.”
His entire expression transformed.
“Yes?” he asked again.
“Yes, Nathan.”
His chair scraped the floor as he stood up so fast.
Then he gave me a painful hug.
“I won’t go too fast.”
I chuckled into his shoulder.
“Good.”
“I practiced with Dad before.”
I withdrew.
“What?”
“For your wedding.”
“You practiced with Dad?”
Nathan shrugged as if this was clear.
“A long time ago.”
It seems that years ago, Dad had made a joke about Nathan having to make sure he didn’t trip over his own feet while walking behind us when I got married.
I broke down in tears once more.
Nathan appeared concerned.
He questioned, “Did I say it wrong?”
“No.”
“Then why are you crying?”
“Because apparently that’s what brides do.”
He acknowledged that.
That same week, Nathan began to practice.
Later, my uncle told me.
Nathan was counting the steps as he walked the upstairs corridor with his arm extended and nothing in his hands.
One, two, and three.
Take a moment.
Take a turn.
Once more.
However, it seems that he needed more than just at-home practice.
Without notifying any of us, he called the church and asked the priest what he should do when we arrived at the front.
After that, Father Michael gave me a call.
“Your brother is taking this very seriously.”
“I know.”
“He asked whether he bows before or after giving you away.”
I chuckled.
“What did you tell him?”
“That nobody is giving you away.”
Nathan seemed to object.
“Dad said that’s what it’s called.”
Father Michael made a compromise as a result.
He revealed the ultimate strategy to me.
Nathan would lead me over to Daniel, give him a hug, shake his hand, and then take a seat next to Mom.
Nathan jotted down the order.
He also worked on that.
He used the same two words every time someone raised a question.
“I practiced.”
Mom was concerned that the crowd may overwhelm him.
“I practiced.”
Uncle Patrick was concerned that his timing would be affected by the music.
“I practiced.”
In case he didn’t know where to sit, Daniel asked if he wanted someone to sit next to him.
Nathan scowled.
“I practiced.”
Everyone agreed.
My mother sobbed.
It was the only account of the day that made sense, according to Daniel.
And that was it for a while.
Three weeks later, Daniel’s mother brought it up over dinner.
Margaret is her name.
She was someone I had known for five years.
Although we had never been close, we had always been polite.
She prefers things done correctly.
Napkins were ironed.
Christmas cards must be mailed by December 1st.
Coordinated family photos.
Before Thanksgiving dinner, she once forced Daniel to switch shirts because his navy sweater “argued with the table runner.”
I therefore anticipated inquiries regarding seating charts when she invited us over to talk about wedding specifics.
I didn’t expect Nathan.
Dinner was almost over when she put down her fork.
“I wanted to ask about the processional.”
Daniel looked up.
“What about it?” he asked.
“Is Nathan still walking Sarah?”
I glanced at him.
“Yes.”
Margaret smiled.
Not warmly.
Carefully.
“He can come, obviously. Nobody is saying he can’t come.”
“Mom—” Daniel began.
“I’m saying he doesn’t have to be in it. Sweetheart, think practically. It isn’t one picture. It’s the whole aisle sequence, the album, the enlargement, and what goes above our fireplace too.”
I gazed at her.
She continued.
“His face will be in every single frame.”
Daniel went still.
“You’ll be looking at that for 40 years. I don’t want those photographs.”
The room changed.
That’s the only way I can explain it.
Nothing moved.
But everything changed.
I set my glass down.
Very carefully.
I had six things ready, and I was going to say every one of them, in her dining room, in front of her son.
That’s my brother.
Say his name.
Say what you mean while I’m sitting here.
Tell me exactly what part of his face ruins your photographs.
Tell me whether you think Down syndrome is contagious through an album.
Tell me whether you understand that my father is dead.
Tell me why you think your mantel gets a vote in my wedding.
Then Daniel took my hand under the table and squeezed it once.
“We’ll figure something out,” he said.
Not to me.
To her.
I turned my head slowly.
For half a second, I thought he meant we’d figure out how to remove Nathan.
Then I saw his face.
Daniel wasn’t agreeing with her.
He was stopping me.
Not because she deserved protection.
Because he knew me.
He knew if I started, I would not stop.
And once I stopped, Margaret would become the story of that night.
The argument would spread.
Calls would happen.
Families would choose sides.
Nathan might hear something.
It was my wedding.
I wasn’t handing her the story of the night I screamed at her table.
So I smiled.
Actually smiled.
And said, “The salmon was very good.”
Daniel nearly choked.
Margaret looked confused.
The dinner ended 15 minutes later.
I didn’t speak in the car until we’d turned onto the highway.
Then, I said, “Pull over.”
Daniel glanced at me.
“Why?”
“Because I need to yell and I don’t want you crashing.”
He pulled into a gas station.
I unbuckled my seat belt.
“What the hell was that?”
“I know.”
“No, what did you mean, we’ll figure something out?”
“I meant I needed five minutes before you set my mother’s dining room on fire.”
“She said she didn’t want my brother’s face in our wedding pictures.”
“I heard her.”
“And you said we’d figure something out?”
Daniel turned toward me.
“Sarah, Nathan is walking you down that aisle.”
I came to a halt.
“There was never another option,” Daniel said firmly.
“Then why didn’t you tell her?” I demanded.
“Because if I’d said what I wanted to say, we’d both be banned from Thanksgiving,” he replied.
Despite myself, I laughed.
Then I cried.
Daniel reached for me.
I let him.
“I don’t want Nathan knowing,” I said.
“He won’t.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
That mattered more than anything.
Nathan had spent almost a year grieving Dad.
He didn’t need to know somebody thought his face was a problem.
I didn’t sleep much.
By around 3 a.m., I knew exactly what I was going to do.
And it had nothing to do with saying anything to Margaret.
The next morning I called the photographer.
Her name was Lena.
“I need to change something about the wedding day,” I said. “And I need you not to mention it to anyone in his family. Not to his mother. Especially not to her.”
She was quiet for a second.
“Okay. Tell me.”
“I want another photographer.”
“We already have a second shooter.”
“I want one more angle.”
“For the ceremony?”
“For Nathan.”
One more pause.
“What exactly do you want covered?”
“Everything.”
I told her.
Nathan waiting near the rear of the chapel.
Nathan holding out his arm.
Nathan counting if he counted.
Nathan’s hands.
His face.
Every step.
I wanted one photographer at the front covering us normally, and another positioned slightly back or to the side focusing nearly totally on him.
Not simply the stroll.
The preparation beforehand.
the once we arrived at Daniel.
the instant Nathan took a seat.
Everything.
“And I want a separate album,” I replied.
Lena remained silent.
She said, “So you want the walk to be the wedding.”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I want.”
I had to take money out of the floral budget because the additional coverage was so expensive.
Two huge reception arrangements were scrapped, and smaller ones took their place.
No one took notice.
Not Margaret, of course.
Nathan practiced for the next three weeks.
I received updates from him.
“Twenty-two steps today.”
Following that, “I forgot to slow down at the turn. Doing it again.”
He once gave Daniel a call.
“What hand do I use?”
“For what?”
“Handshake.”
“Right hand.”
“But Sarah is on my right.”
It seems that Daniel explained the logistics for five minutes.
Nathan figured it out on his own.
“I let go of Sarah first.”
“Perfect.”
“I practiced.”
I was more at ease than I had anticipated on the morning of the wedding.
That is, until I noticed Dad’s cufflinks.
For Nathan, Mom had brought them.
My makeup artist had to leave the room because I started crying so much.
Daniel and the guys helped Nathan get ready.
Daniel texted me a picture at some time.
Nathan in his suit was there.
flat-combed hair.
You can see Dad’s cufflinks.
I had never seen a more serious expression on his face.
Daniel commented underneath, “He has asked what time it is 11 times.”
I said, “Tell him I haven’t escaped.”
After a minute, Daniel said, “He says good.”
I stood in the small side room at the rear of the church when it was time.
Nathan entered.
When he noticed me, he stopped.
Neither of us spoke for a moment.
Nathan then remarked, “You look like Mom’s wedding picture.”
I was more thoroughly destroyed by that than by any accolade.
“You look like Dad,” I remarked.
He made contact with one cufflink.
“I know.”
Outside, the music began.
Nathan stood up straight.
Then he extended his arm.
“Ready?”
“No.”
He scowled.
“That’s not right.”
I chuckled while crying.
“I’m ready.”
He gave a nod.
“Good.”
The doors parted.
There were 140 persons present.
Daniel was in front of me.
Mom was already crying when I saw her in the first pew.
Margaret was seated two seats down.
After then, Nathan was the only person I saw.
He began to count silently.
“One.”
Take a step.
“Two.”
Take a step.
“Three.”
I gave his arm a squeeze.
He gave me a look.
“Too fast?”
“No.”
“I practiced.”
“I know.”
One of Lena’s photographers crept silently to the front, while another took pictures of us from the side.
Nathan was never in a hurry.
Never forget.
Don’t ever let go.
His mouth began to shake halfway down the aisle.
I was afraid he might weep.
Rather, he said, “Dad would’ve liked your dress.”
I was practically done by that.
He came to a stop at the altar just where Father Michael had instructed.
He then shook Daniel’s hand and let go of my arm.
Daniel drew him into an embrace.
Nathan then turned around to face me.
He didn’t go sit down, though.
He reached into his jacket.
My stomach fell.
“What are you doing?”
He produced a folded sheet of paper.
I turned to face Daniel.
Daniel appeared just as perplexed.
Father Michael grinned.
It seems that only one person was aware.
Nathan unfurled the document.
His hands trembled.
He then turned to face the assembly.
“I wrote something.”
A few folks chuckled quietly.
Nathan cast a downward glance.
The first two words were said in a tremulous voice.
After that, it stabilized.
“Sarah is my little sister.”
He gave me a look.
“Dad always walked with her when she was scared.”
I kept my mouth shut.
“Dad can’t do that today, so I did.”
There was total silence in the church.
Nathan turned to face the paper again.
“Dad told me I am her big brother and I should take care of her.”
Next, the final sentence.
“So that is what I am doing.”
After that, I don’t recall standing up straight.
Daniel’s hand on my back is what I recall.
I recall Mom crying uncontrollably.
Father Michael removed his glasses, as I recall.
Additionally, I recall Nathan meticulously folding the paper.
“Do I sit now?” is then asked.
Everyone chuckled while crying.
“Yes,” I said.
He moved to sit next to Mom.
The ceremony went on.
Margaret also remained silent.
Not in reference to Nathan.
Not because of the pictures.
Not on that particular day.
The record was delivered eight weeks later.
The standard wedding album was exquisite.
The second one was superior.
Nathan started by getting ready.
Dad’s cufflinks.
Nathan looks at the time.
Nathan was by himself at the church doors, holding out his arm.
The walk comes next.
Page after page.
His expression was focused.
I put my hand on his arm.
As he counted, his lips moved.
He glanced at me halfway down.
Daniel gave him a hug.
The speech came next.
On one double-page spread, Nathan was seen at the altar with the paper in both hands while everyone in the pews behind him started crying.
I started crying again.
The next Sunday, we had dinner.
Daniel’s parents arrived.
Mom did, too.
Nathan was also present, talking to Daniel about a football game as if he hadn’t emotionally ruined an entire church eight weeks prior.
I placed the record on the coffee table.
I didn’t make the announcement.
didn’t give it to Margaret.
failed to make a point.
I entered the kitchen.
She was sitting on her knees with it open when I returned.
She had completed roughly half of it.
At the church door, she was staring at Nathan’s double-page spread.
Put your arms out.
awaiting my arrival.
His lips were slightly parted.
counting.
Margaret didn’t raise her head.
“He practiced this.”
Behind the couch, I stood.
“Every day for three weeks.”
She flipped to the next page.
Then one more.
She arrived at the picture on the altar.
Nathan holding the document.
I’m crying.
Daniel is behind me.
She spent a considerable amount of time there.
She then put both hands flat on the cover of the album and closed it.
“Can I get a copy of this one?”
I was aware of the one she was referring to.
The speech.
“Yes.”
That was all.
She never expressed regret.
Not verbally.
And I no longer needed her.
Daniel emailed me a picture from his parents’ home a few weeks later.
Margaret had the photo up in her entryway.
At the altar is Nathan.
He held a piece of paper.
She had spent far too much for the frame.
It was unbelievable.
It seems that she now tells guests, “That’s Sarah’s brother, Nathan. Their father died before the wedding, so
Nathan walked her down the aisle.”
Daniel then stated, “He practiced for three weeks because he wanted to get it right.”
It’s the best thing she knows about us, she says.
It might be by now.
What she stated at the dinner table was something I never shared with Nathan.
He is unaware that the question of whether he would appear in the photos was ever discussed.
He is unaware that I hired more photographers because someone was afraid his face would ruin them.
He is not need to.
To the best of my brother’s knowledge, he requested to take over Dad’s duties.
Everyone agreed.
He rehearsed.
And he did it flawlessly.
This is precisely what transpired in every aspect that ultimately mattered.
The true question is this: Should someone’s bias ever be permitted to determine who should be included in someone else’s most significant memories?
If you liked this story, you might also appreciate this one: An adolescent who carried his disabled brother to school was publicly humiliated by a new headmaster. But the entire hallway found out why the youngster had been doing it for three years when one employee finally came forward. What was the school concealing?
