I sat at Table 19.
Table 19 was not under the fairy lights. It was not near the massive, multi-tiered floral centerpieces, nor was it anywhere near the head table where my parents were currently holding court. Table 19 was shoved into a dark, forgotten corner of the patio, wedged uncomfortably between a loud, buzzing portable generator and the swinging doors of the catering kitchen. It was the table reserved for the plus-ones of distant cousins, the socially awkward coworkers, and, apparently, me and my four-year-old daughter, Lily.
I smoothed the fabric of my simple, modest navy dress. It was off-the-rack, a stark contrast to the sea of custom silk and designer labels surrounding us. I didn’t care about the dress, but my heart ached for Lily. She was sitting quietly beside me, her little legs swinging back and forth, happily coloring on a cheap paper napkin with a stolen pen because no one had thought to provide a children’s activity pack for her.
My family didn’t want us here. I knew that. But Chloe had sent a pity invitation, and my mother had followed it up with a strict phone call demanding I attend so the extended family wouldn’t ask “awkward questions” about my absence.
To them, I was the black sheep. I was the cautionary tale. Five years ago, I had gotten pregnant and refused to name the father, dropping out of my prestigious master’s program to raise my child alone. My family, obsessed with appearances, had practically disowned me. They assumed I had been knocked up and abandoned by some deadbeat, bringing “shame” to the family name.
They couldn’t have been more wrong. But the truth was far too dangerous to share.
Suddenly, the heavy scent of Chanel No. 5 invaded my space. I looked up. My mother, Eleanor, was standing over me, a glass of vintage champagne tight in her manicured grip. She looked impeccable in a silver mother-of-the-bride gown, but her eyes were cold and calculating.
She didn’t look at Lily. She didn’t say hello.
“Look at your rough hands,” my mother hissed, leaning close to my ear so the wealthy guests at the adjacent table wouldn’t hear her venom. “You didn’t even bother to get a manicure for your sister’s wedding? You look like the hired help.”
