Nina promised her brother Adam that her wedding speech would last three minutes. She said it while holding a folder thick enough to stop a door.
Adam looked at the folder. “Three minutes?”
“Three minutes of speaking,” Nina said. “The rest is visual support.”
The wedding was on Saturday, so on Wednesday their mother called a rehearsal in her kitchen. She set a timer beside the fruit bowl. Adam’s fiancée, Leila, brought a pen for suggested cuts. Their father brought biscuits and an expression that suggested he knew better than to bring suggestions.
Nina began with the summer Adam learned to ride a bicycle. She had three versions of this story, each ending with him in a different hedge. At the four-minute mark, she reached primary school. At seven minutes, Leila quietly turned over her page of notes.
“You’re still in childhood,” Adam said.
“It’s a chronological speech,” Nina replied.
Their mother suggested keeping one bicycle story. Nina agreed and selected the one with the most witnesses. She cut the entire section about Adam’s first car after their father pointed out that it contained two insurance claims and a stranger who was invited to the wedding.
On Thursday Nina returned with a shorter draft and six photographs. The speech was down to four minutes if nobody laughed. Leila asked what would happen if somebody did.
“I’ll wait politely,” Nina said.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
They tried another rehearsal. Their father laughed at the bit about the old garden shed, and Nina stopped the timer while she waited for him to finish. Leila pointed out that a wedding audience was unlikely to operate under laboratory conditions. Nina crossed out another paragraph, though she insisted on keeping the final line.
“You haven’t told us the final line,” Adam said.
“It’s a surprise.”
“That sentence has never calmed me down.”
On Friday, their mother found Nina at the kitchen table with a fresh page. She had abandoned the bicycle, the car and the photographs. She read her new version aloud: Adam was a kind brother, Leila was a wonderful addition to the family, and everyone should raise a glass. It took forty-two seconds.
“That’s beautiful,” their mother said.
Nina stared at the stopwatch. “It doesn’t feel like enough.”
Her mother sat down. “You’ve spent your whole life telling him everything he needs to hear. You don’t have to do it all again in one room.”
At the reception, Nina stood with the single page. Adam gave her a relieved smile. She spoke warmly, got a laugh from one small story about him ironing a shirt while still wearing it, and invited everyone to toast the couple. Two minutes and fifty seconds.
Adam caught her as she sat down. “That was perfect.”
Nina reached under her chair and produced the original folder.
He went pale. “What’s that for?”
“The best man asked for some material,” she said. “I told him I had three minutes to spare.”