Then Morgan’s voice burst through somewhere beside him.
“She can’t do that.”
I almost laughed, but there was nothing funny about it.
I heard Caleb cover the phone and mumble something to her.
Then he came back.
“Mom, this is our wedding.”
“No, Caleb.
It is your marriage.
The wedding was a collection of contracts I signed.”
“Because you offered!”
“Yes.
I offered to host a celebration for my son.
I did not offer to finance my own public humiliation.”
His breathing grew louder.
“Can you please just come back and we’ll talk?”
Thirty minutes earlier, I would have crossed that lawn barefoot if he had called me and said he needed me.
Now the request sounded different.
He did not say he was sorry.
He did not say Morgan was wrong.
He did not mention watching his mother be mocked in front of a crowd.
He wanted me back because the venue manager had spoken the language he understood.
Contracts.
“I already gave you a chance to talk,” I said.
“You were standing three feet away.”
“Mom—”
“You chose not to.”
I ended the call.
The next call came from catering.
Their representative confirmed my electronic cancellation request and explained the same unpleasant truth: because ingredients had already been purchased and staff scheduled, much of the payment would not be recoverable.
“I understand,” I said.
“Do you still want us to cancel tomorrow’s service?”
“Yes.”
“Understood.”
Then the florist called.
The orchids were already on site.
Some arrangements had been installed for the welcome party.
Others were waiting in refrigerated storage for the ceremony.
“Would you like the remaining installation canceled?” the coordinator asked.
“Yes.”
“And the unused arrangements?”
I thought for a moment.
“Whatever the contract permits you to do with them after cancellation is fine.”
I did not want the flowers.
I did not want revenge orchids delivered to my hotel room.
I simply wanted my name removed from tomorrow.
By then, the white party had stopped pretending nothing was happening.
Guests were turning toward the head table.
Morgan was talking rapidly to the venue staff member.
One bridesmaid had a hand over her mouth.
Another was staring at her phone.
The luxury image Morgan had curated so carefully was cracking in real time, not because I was making a scene, but because I had stopped paying to maintain it.
My phone rang again.
This time it was Morgan.
I answered.
“What is wrong with you?” she demanded.
No greeting.
