“Of course.”
Daniel was not much better.
I found him outside with his groomsmen, laughing as a photographer arranged them near the fountain. When he saw me, he hugged me quickly, but his eyes kept moving toward the photographer.
“You look handsome,” I said.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Your father would have been so proud.”
His expression softened for half a second.
Then Tiffany’s wedding coordinator called his name, and he stepped away.
“We’ll talk later.”
Later never came.
The ceremony itself was beautiful.
I watched Daniel stand beneath an arch of white orchids and promise Tiffany a lifetime of loyalty. My heart ached with love, grief, and something I could not yet name.
Thomas should have been sitting beside me.
Instead, an empty chair stood at the end of the front row with a small arrangement of flowers placed on it. That had been my request.
Tiffany had initially objected because she thought an empty chair would look “depressing” in the photographs.
I paid for the photographs.
The chair stayed.
During the vows, Daniel’s voice trembled. For a moment, I saw the little boy who used to climb into my bed during thunderstorms.
I cried quietly.
I thought of school lunches, scraped knees, college tuition, and the nights Thomas and I had stayed awake worrying about whether we were raising him properly.
I thought of all the sacrifices that had led us to that garden.
I believed they had been worth it.
Then came the reception.
By seven o’clock, the ballroom glowed beneath crystal chandeliers. The band played. Waiters moved between tables carrying plates of filet mignon and roasted salmon. Guests raised glasses of expensive champagne.
Tiffany changed into a fitted reception gown covered in hand-sewn crystals. She moved through the room like royalty, accepting compliments as if she had personally financed every detail.
I tried to enjoy myself.
I spoke with relatives I had not seen in years. I danced once with Thomas’s older brother. I watched Daniel and Tiffany cut the six-tier cake.
But beneath everything, I felt exhausted.
My feet hurt. My savings were gone. Part of my husband’s family land belonged to strangers.
Still, whenever I looked at Daniel smiling, I told myself the same thing.
It was worth it.
Then the bar manager approached me.
His name was Mr. Harris, a professional man in a dark suit who had treated me respectfully throughout the planning process.
“Mrs. Bennett,” he said quietly, “may I speak with you?”
Something in his expression made me follow him toward the edge of the ballroom.
“Is something wrong?”
He lowered his voice.
“The bride requested that we begin serving Laurent Reserve for the toast.”
I stared at him.
“Laurent Reserve?”
“Yes, ma’am. Six bottles.”
I knew the name because it had appeared on an earlier proposal.
Nearly two thousand dollars for the order.
“I removed that from the final package.”
“You did.”
“Then why is it here?”
“The bride contacted our beverage coordinator directly three days ago. She said you had approved the addition and asked that it be placed on your card.”
My stomach tightened.
“I did not approve it.”
Mr. Harris looked embarrassed.
“I suspected there may have been a misunderstanding, which is why I came to you before opening the bottles.”
“There is no misunderstanding. Do not serve them.”
“Of course.”
I thought that would end the matter.
I had underestimated Tiffany.
Less than five minutes later, she came storming across the ballroom with her parents behind her.
Her father, Richard Caldwell, was a tall man who liked to speak loudly about investments he never seemed willing to fund himself. Her mother, Denise, wore diamonds at her throat and had spent the previous six months criticizing every decision while contributing almost nothing.
Tiffany stopped directly in front of me.
“The bar manager says the Laurent Reserve isn’t being served.”
Several nearby guests turned toward us.
“That’s correct,” I said.
“Tell them to put it on your card.”
“No.”
She blinked as though I had spoken in another language.
“This is my wedding.”
“And I have already paid more than enough.”
Her jaw tightened.
“My father specifically requested that champagne for his toast.”
“Then your father is welcome to purchase it.”
Richard folded his arms.
“This is hardly the time to create a scene over one bottle of champagne.”
“It is six bottles,” I replied. “And I’m not the one creating a scene.”
Tiffany took a step closer.
“You have hated this wedding from the beginning.”
“I questioned the spending.”
“You tried to control everything.”
“I paid for everything.”
The ballroom grew quiet around us.
Not completely silent yet, but close enough that I could hear the clink of silverware being placed carefully against china.
I looked toward Daniel.
He stood only a few feet away, still wearing his tuxedo. His best man had stopped beside him.
Surely he would intervene.
Surely he would defend the mother who had spent months giving him everything he asked for.
Instead, he stood frozen.
Tiffany saw his silence and mistook it for permission.
“You’re nothing but a bitter old woman with money,” she said.
The words struck deeper than I expected.
Perhaps because the money was gone.
Perhaps because she knew nothing about what it had cost me to produce the illusion of wealth surrounding her.
“You promised us the perfect wedding,” she continued.
“I promised to help,” I said. “You simply kept asking until there was almost nothing left.”
“You’re ruining my wedding!”
Behind her stood flowers purchased with the refund from my canceled vacation.
Above her hung chandeliers inside a ballroom rented with money from Thomas’s land.
Every guest eating dinner that evening was enjoying food paid for by sacrifices Tiffany would never understand.
“I have given enough,” I said quietly. “The answer is no.”
Her hand moved before I understood what she was doing.
The slap cracked across my face.
My head snapped to the side.
A champagne glass slipped from someone’s fingers and shattered against the marble floor.
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