Let me back up. Our wedding was what my mother called "an event." My side of the family, loud Irish Catholic with thirteen first cousins flying in from Boston. His side, a Connecticut old-money family that had gently, politely made it clear for the entire engagement that I was "a delightful surprise." That last phrase — a delightful surprise — was what his mother said when I told her I was a teacher. A high school English teacher, specifically. His name is Beckett, and his family's money is the kind that doesn't make a sound when it moves, the kind that has been in the same bank since the Eisenhower administration, the kind that had paid for the sixty thousand dollars this wedding was going to cost with what Beckett cheerfully called "discretionary funds." I had pushed back on the scale. I'd wanted something smaller. He had laughed and said, "My mother would never forgive me." And because I loved him, I let her have her event. What I didn't know yet is that Beckett's mother was not the only woman in his life with strong opinions about the wedding.