I did not cancel the wedding. I want to explain why, because I know how it looks from the outside. It looks selfish. Even to me, saying it out loud, it looks selfish. But here is what happened next. My sister Lacey, the middle one, called me the next day and told me I was being "incredibly cruel." My sister Piper, the oldest, told me she would stop speaking to me if I "prioritized a party over our dying mother." My mother's best friend Elaine — a woman I had loved since I was four years old — told me I was "breaking her heart." My father's brother Uncle Roy told me that I was "spitting on my father's memory." Every single person in my family, over the course of six days, called me some version of a monster. My fiancé, Graham, who had been present for exactly one Diana holiday before proposing, asked me — gently, carefully — if I was sure I wasn't overreacting. And I sat him down at our kitchen table and I told him every story I had never told him. And when I was done, he said, "I understand. Let's get married in Charleston."