They forgot one small detail when they decided to humiliate me at the entrance of Green Valley Estate on that perfect September afternoon. I was the one who paid for the entire event—every single dollar of the $127,000 it cost. Every white rose in those towering centerpieces. Every piece of gold-rimmed china on those elegantly set tables. Every note the band would play. Every bite of the filet mignon and lobster tail that would be served at dinner. All of it came from my bank account, signed for with my name, secured with my credit cards.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me take you back to where this nightmare really began.
It was a Tuesday afternoon in March when Avery and his wife Taylor first came to see me about Sophie’s wedding. I remember because Tuesdays were my volunteer days at the animal shelter, something I’d done every week since my husband David passed seven years ago. But that morning, Avery called with those words that make every mother’s heart jump to the worst conclusions: “Mom, can we come by this afternoon? We need to talk to you about something important.”