“Didn’t I already tell you?” I repeated, gently, into the silence. “I’m not sending the honeymoon money, Bethany.” I heard her breath catch. Then the questions came fast, confused, and then sharp, the way they always did when she expected me to fold. Why would I do this? Was I punishing her? Did I know how much they had already booked? I let her finish. Then I told her the truth I had been carrying since the phone call a week earlier. That I had spent seventy-two thousand dollars on a wedding I was apparently not welcome at, and that I had learned, from her own fiancé, that another man would be walking her down the aisle in my place.

Trevor took the phone, the way he always did, smooth and reasonable, telling me I was overreacting, that the rehearsal dinner was just logistics, that surely a father wouldn’t withhold a honeymoon over hurt feelings. I did not raise my voice. I told him that I had already paid for the venue, the catering, the photographer, the flowers, and the band, every single thing, without one question. And I told him that a man who is good enough to write the checks is good enough to walk his daughter down the aisle, or he is not really family at all. Then I told them both exactly what I had done that week, and the line went very, very quiet.