payment for the reception as arranged. Eighty-four thousand dollars. Venue, catering, band, flowers, photography, open bar, and accommodations for out-of-town guests.
Daniel knew I was paying.
Vanessa knew better than anyone.
“Three months ago,” I said, “Vanessa asked my wife whether we could increase the flower budget. Margaret said we would think about it. Vanessa replied that if we were going to act poor, we should not have offered to host the wedding.”
A murmur moved through the crowd.
“That is not true,” Daniel said.
Margaret, standing at the edge of the lawn in my jacket, looked down.
I turned to my son. “Your mother cried in the laundry room that night. You were upstairs. You heard her. You did nothing.”
His face tightened but he said nothing.
I held up the envelope.
“This contains a cashier’s check for the remaining balance. It was meant to go to the venue
