The waiter placed a silver water pitcher on our table just as Samantha turned down the third alternative reception hall.

She tilted her chin up and offered a smile that involved only her mouth, leaving her eyes completely flat.

“The botanical gardens are fine for a morning brunch,” Samantha said.

My son Brandon, twenty-eight, tapped his foot steadily against the brass rail at the base of the table.

He wore a new tailored suit that looked expensive, though he had only been a corporate loan officer for two years.

“We need synergy with the guest list,” Brandon said, talking far too fast.

“It’s about leveraging our networks.”

Samantha, twenty-six, reached across the white tablecloth and placed her hand over my son’s wrist.

“We have to make sure the venue reflects the status we deserve in Atlanta,” Samantha said.

“The Crown Plaza Hotel ballroom is the only space that works.”

I looked at my wife sitting beside me.

Evelyn, sixty-two, patted the blue silk scarf draped over her collarbone, a quiet habit she had developed when her energy began to drop.

She was fighting a stage three illness that we kept very private.

“The Crown Plaza is a very large room for three hundred guests,” Evelyn said, keeping her voice soft and encouraging to ease the tension.

“Perhaps something more intimate would feel warmer.”

Douglas Kingsley, fifty-eight, swirled the amber liquid in his rocks glass.

He laughed loudly, a sound that carried over the low hum of the downtown Atlanta steakhouse.

“Nonsense,” Douglas said.