The ballroom glittered with imported orchids when I walked in at noon, carrying a leather folder. Mom spotted me from the head table, went pale, then smiled too widely. Dad rushed over and gripped my elbow. “You are not supposed to be here,” he hissed. I met his eyes. “I came to give Brielle a wedding gift,” I said. Behind me, the event manager nodded to a technician.

The lights dimmed, and the giant screen behind the head table flickered on. Grandma Harriet’s will appeared first, with one line highlighted. Then came Dad’s affidavit, claiming I lived somewhere in Europe. A murmur rolled through two hundred guests. The groom stood slowly and stared at Brielle. Dad lunged for the cable, but a security guard stepped in front of him. Then the recording began, and my mother’s whispering voice filled the entire room.