At My Sister’s $5 Million Wedding, My Father Poured Wine Down My Dress and Called Me a Pathetic Spinster on the Microphone. I Made One Phone Call

Rosalie was marrying Thaddeus Fairchild, the heir to an old East Coast banking family, in a ceremony whose budget I had heard quoted, in awed tones, at five million dollars.

It was to be the social event of my mother’s year — the crowning of the golden child, the merger of the Pembroke name with the Fairchild fortune, a spectacle staged for the express purpose of being envied.

My attendance was expected in the way a piece of required furniture is expected: present, unremarkable, out of the way.

The morning of the wedding, I dressed with care.

My gown was a custom piece of platinum silk, hand-stitched by a house in Florence I had used for years; it was cut to look understated, and the raw fabric alone had cost more than most people’s cars.