My mother attended in a pristine beige silk suit—the mother-of-the-bride’s traditional privilege, cheerfully violated.

I overheard her informing the wedding photographer that my dress was “sadly just off the rack, but Whitney has always been painfully practical.”

I let the insult slide off me like water.

I was armored with twenty-six years of conditioning and one very strong glass of champagne.

But there’s one detail from that reception I kept locked away.

During the toasts, Chelsea reached under the linen tablecloth and grabbed my hand.