It was then that Timothy, Samantha’s fiance, came into the kitchen carrying a box of seating cards, and he stopped when he saw our faces.

“Is this a bad time?” he asked carefully.

“My mother texted Dad,” Samantha said.

Timothy set the cards down.

“Is she coming?” “With Gregory,” Samantha said.

Timothy looked at me.

“Don’t get pulled into this,” I told him.

“You don’t need our family’s old wounds hanging over your wedding.” He gave me a steady, kind smile.