My parents had spent nearly a quarter of a million dollars on my sister’s wedding — imported flowers, a live orchestra, designer gowns, elaborate lighting, a vast ballroom in the city’s most exclusive hotel.

Marissa was marrying Spencer Ashby, son of Bernard Ashby, a family tied to the regional banking sector for decades, and my mother had spent months boasting that this would be the wedding of the decade.

When I checked in, I found my seat assigned to Table 21 — placed directly beside the swinging kitchen service doors, as far from the head family table as the room physically allowed.

The message was not subtle.