My mother smiled as she told me she had moved her anniversary party to the same day as my wedding because everyone had chosen her. My father raised his glass and praised her for being clever. I did not cancel the wedding. I changed one sentence on every invitation, and within an hour, her phone would not stop buzzing.
“I moved my anniversary party onto your wedding day. They’re all coming to mine,” my mother smiled.
Beside her, my father lifted his champagne glass, the diamonds in his cuff links flashing beneath the restaurant lights. “Smart girl.”
For a few seconds, all I could hear was the faint clatter of silverware around us.
My fiancé, Daniel Whitmore, sat across from me with his hand still holding mine beneath the table. His fingers tightened, not from fear, but as a warning. He understood my mother. He knew the exact sugary tone she used whenever she wanted to wound someone in public.
I looked at Evelyn Harrington, my mother, sitting in cream silk like royalty, one eyebrow raised as though she were waiting for me to cry.
We had spent fourteen months planning our wedding. The deposits were paid. The venue was reserved. The guests had confirmed. My grandparents’ church was booked.
It was more than a date.
