“It’s okay, Mom,” she whispered, which somehow made it hurt more.
I stood up and went straight to the reception coordinator before my expression gave anything away. Her name was Denise, and she spoke with the clipped, weary tone of someone who had been solving problems all day. When I explained that my daughter hadn’t received a proper meal, she frowned, checked her tablet, and asked me to follow her to the entry hall where the seating chart stood beneath an arrangement of white roses.
“She’s not on the meal list,” Denise said quietly. “I’m sorry. This is what we were given in the final count.”
She pointed to Table Seven.
My name was there. Ava’s was not.
What had supposedly been our family table was now filled with Brooke’s coworkers, two unfamiliar guests, and a couple from her Pilates class I had only met once at the bridal shower. Denise kept speaking—likely explaining how the caterer had to follow final numbers—but I wasn’t hearing her anymore. I was staring at the blank space where my daughter’s name should have been.
Then I saw something else.
On the printed chart, each child’s name had a blue dot marking a children’s meal. In the lower corner, barely noticeable unless you were standing close, there was a penciled note from the planner’s office: “Ava Bennett removed per bride. No child plate.”
