Daniel and I chose a place that made sense only if you knew us: a small botanical garden in D.C. that hosted community events and funded local education programs. Quiet paths, greenhouses, sunlight filtered through leaves. A place that didn’t care who your father was.
The director of the garden met us with a clipboard and mud on her boots. “We can do a hundred guests comfortably,” she said. “And we’ve hosted everything from quinceañeras to retirement parties. You tell us what you want.”
“What we want,” I said, surprising myself with how clear it felt, “is to be treated like normal people.”
She laughed. “Then you picked the right place,” she said.
The press tried anyway. A blogger posted that we’d chosen a “secret venue.” Another claimed we were shutting out “high society.” Someone else tried to frame it as a political statement.
Daniel and I refused to respond. We focused on small decisions that felt like ours.
Music that mattered to us.
Food that tasted like comfort.
A guest list built on love, not leverage.