Her eyes drifted over my navy dress. Custom-made. Modest. Elegant. The same dress she had approved three months earlier when she needed my checkbook more than my dignity.
“You can still come,” she said, lowering her voice like she was offering a favor. “Just don’t stand near the altar. Or in the family photos. The photographer is doing a magazine-style edit, and I paid a lot for that.”
“No,” I said. “I paid a lot for that.”
Her smile faltered.
The truth sat between us like a loaded weapon. I had covered the venue deposit. The florist. The caterer’s initial invoice. The photographer’s booking fee. Twenty thousand dollars, because Vivian had cried in my kitchen about “cash flow” and “just needing help until the honeymoon refunds came through.”
Back then, she had hugged me. Called me her savior.
