And this, I think, was the moment the whole room finally understood the thing I’d understood alone in my kitchen six months earlier.
It wasn’t about money.
It had never been about money.
Whitney hadn’t skimmed fees from our relatives because she needed three hundred dollars from Aunt Diane.
She’d done it because she could.
Because arranging the world into people who paid and people who were paid for, people up front and people by the kitchen, people who mattered and people who could be handed a cold slice of pizza — that arrangement was the thing she actually wanted.
The money was just how she kept score.
Control was the prize.
The venue manager spoke for the first time, his voice low and even. ”
I want to say, on behalf of the venue — we questioned several of these requests.
More than once.
It didn’t sit right with my staff, charging family members for services that were included in the package.”
He shook his head slowly. ”
But every time we raised it, we were told the same thing.
That these were the bride’s final decisions.
And legally, on the day, the client’s instructions stand.
We didn’t have the authority to overrule her.
I’m not proud of that.