My sister blasted “INFERTILE, DIVORCED, FAILURE” across a 10-foot screen at her wedding while 200 guests laughed—my mother sipped wine, my father called it “just a joke.”

An older woman I don’t recognize sits two rows ahead of me. White hair, floral dress, reading glasses on a chain. She looks at me once, then back toward the altar. I don’t think anything of it.

The ceremony begins. Garrett stands at the altar looking genuinely happy. He speaks his vows with a tremor in his voice. Paige speaks hers louder, longer, mostly about herself.

Across the church, I spot Marcus near the side entrance wearing a black polo with the AV company’s logo. He adjusts a microphone cable on the altar.

Our eyes meet for half a second. He gives the smallest nod.

My father shakes hands like a politician. My mother smiles like a hostess. And I sit in the last row like a ghost they’d invited on purpose.

The reception is at Millbrook Country Club. Crystal chandeliers, round tables draped in white linen, a 10-by-6-foot projection screen behind the head table, the smell of gardenias and money.

Table 14 is where I’m seated. Back corner next to the kitchen door. Every time a server pushes through, a blast of clattering dishes and shouted orders hits my back.