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

Chapter 12 — The Microphone

My father had risen, and taken up the microphone, and his face was flushed with champagne and with something uglier and more pleased.

He did not come to see whether the broken glass had cut me.

He did not ask if I was hurt.

He lifted the microphone to his mouth, and he smiled out at the room.

“Well,” his voice boomed through the speakers, thick with theatrical sorrow.

“Some things never do change, do they.”