“It happened fast,” Taylor explained, leaning forward with that practiced enthusiasm I’d seen her use in her Instagram videos. “She met Marcus at an internship last summer. He proposed at Christmas in Aspen. It was so romantic—right on the ski lift at sunset.”
“That’s wonderful news,” I managed, though my hands trembled slightly as I set down my cup. My granddaughter was getting married, and I was just finding out now, four months after the proposal. “When’s the wedding?”
“In September,” Avery said. “Saturday, September 14th.”
Six months away. “We wanted to tell you in person,” Taylor added quickly, clearly reading the hurt on my face. “Not over the phone. This is too important.”
“Of course,” I said, forcing myself to smile. “I understand. So how can I help? I assume you’re here because you need help with planning.”
Another glance passed between them, and this time I caught it clearly—that silent communication that spoke volumes about conversations they’d had without me. Conversations about me.
“Actually, Mom,” Avery said, his voice dropping to that soft tone he’d used since he was a little boy asking for something he knew was a stretch, “that’s exactly why we’re here. You know how times are these days. The economy. Inflation. Everything’s so expensive.” He paused, searching my face. “We just want Sophie to have her dream wedding. She’s worked so hard. She deserves a beautiful day.”
I looked at my son—truly looked at him. He worked at a small advertising agency in Midtown. Good job, but not great. Taylor didn’t work at all beyond her lifestyle influencer Instagram account with seventeen thousand followers, which as far as I could tell meant posting photos of brunch and giving advice about handbags.
“How much does Sophie’s dream wedding cost?” I heard myself ask.
Avery reached into his briefcase and pulled out a glossy brochure. The cover showed a sprawling estate with white columns and manicured gardens. “Green Valley Estate,” he said. “It’s in Westchester, about an hour north of the city.”
I took the brochure and studied the photos—a grand ballroom with crystal chandeliers, outdoor terraces overlooking a lake, gardens with stone pathways, tables set with fine china and gold-rimmed glasses, floral arrangements that looked like waterfalls of white roses and peonies. It was beautiful, undeniably so, the kind of venue you see in magazines.
“It’s gorgeous,” I admitted.