every room seemed designed for photographs.
The estimated wedding budget was $180,000.
I knew my parents had offered to contribute, but Theo told them not to worry.
“Camille’s family is handling most of the arrangements,” he said.
Dad watched him for a moment.
“Just make sure the two of you are making decisions together.”
Theo smiled and changed the subject.
On the Thursday before the wedding, Mom called me about her dress.
“Lena, do you think navy is too plain?”
“Mom, you could wear a paper bag and still look lovely.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.
People will take pictures.”
There was something in her voice that made me stop folding laundry.
“Has Camille said something?”
Mom hesitated.
“She just mentioned that the formal portraits were going to be very carefully arranged.
I don’t want to get in anyone’s way.”
I promised her she wouldn’t.
I wish I’d asked more questions.
Saturday arrived warm and cloudless.
At nine that morning, I found Mom standing in front of her bedroom mirror, trying to fasten a silver barrette above her ear.
She’d curled her hair and put on the navy dress she’d chosen after three shopping trips.
Dad appeared behind her, wearing his familiar charcoal suit.
One cuff had a tiny repair stitched with dark thread.
“You two look like movie stars,” I said.
Dad grinned.
“Good.
Maybe someone will give us free popcorn.”
Mom laughed and straightened his tie.
Watching them together, I felt a quiet happiness.
They’d been married thirty-seven years.
They still reached for each other’s hands when crossing streets.
An hour later, that same woman would be made to feel ashamed of standing beside him.
We reached the Lantern Foundry shortly after three.
White flowers framed the entrance.
A string quartet played near the central staircase.
Servers carried champagne on silver trays while photographers moved between elegantly dressed guests.
At the reception desk, a young attendant checked our names.
“Vale family.
Yes.
Table Eighteen.”
He pointed toward the rear of the ballroom.
I followed his gesture and frowned.
Our table stood beside a service corridor, partly obscured by a towering arrangement of white orchids.
Meanwhile, Camille’s family occupied the first two rows of tables beside the dance floor.
Mom looked at her place card.
“Maybe they wanted us somewhere quiet,” she suggested.
Dad said nothing.
I noticed a second seating chart lying beneath the coordinator’s clipboard.
On it, the name Vale appeared near the front.
Before I could ask about it, the coordinator was called away.
Then Camille arrived.
Her gown shimmered beneath the chandeliers, and her dark hair was arranged beneath a long, delicate veil.
She looked like a princess in a painting.
Unfortunately, the next words out of her mouth revealed something considerably less beautiful.
“Lena, please don’t complain about the seating,” she said.
“I wasn’t complaining.
I was asking whether there’d been a mistake.”
Camille glanced at Mom’s dress and Dad’s suit.
Her expression tightened.
“You have to understand.
Important people are here today.
Investors, business partners, magazine editors.
My family has a reputation to protect.”
“What does that have to do with my parents?”
She sighed, apparently frustrated that I was forcing her to explain something she considered obvious.
“A family that looks this poor doesn’t exactly improve the atmosphere.
It would be embarrassing to have
