By ten on the morning of the wedding, my phone had rung forty-one times. The venue manager called first, then the florist, then the orchestra’s leader, all asking where their payments had gone. I let every call ring while I watered my azaleas on the porch. At noon, a message arrived from Danielle: “Mom, the ballroom doors are locked. Two hundred guests are standing outside. Fix this NOW.”

Then a black car pulled into my driveway. Andrew stepped out in his tuxedo, pale, his tie hanging loose, holding a thick folder against his chest. He did not bother with a greeting. “Mrs. Brooks,” he said, his voice breaking, “your name is on every contract. Why did Danielle tell my family she paid for all of it herself?” Behind him, his mother, Patricia, was slowly climbing out of the car, already crying.