“I’ve finalized the venue, Ryan,” she barked, her voice echoing with the sterile efficiency of a corporate raider. “The caterer is booked. The invitations are being hand-calligraphed as we speak. Tell Ensley to simply exist. I’ve handled the heavy lifting.”
Ryan glanced at me, his expression a weary blend of filial guilt and exhausted love. “Mom says she’s got it all covered, Ensley. She says you should just… rest.”
“Can I speak to her?” I asked, reaching out a hand that felt swollen and clumsy.
Ryan hesitated—a brief, telling pause—before handing over the device.
“Patricia? Hi. I was actually hoping we could talk about the theme. I had some ideas for—”
“Oh, Ensley, dear.” Her voice underwent a terrifying metamorphosis, shifting into a saccharine, high-pitched sweetness that made my skin crawl. “You mustn’t overtax yourself. These events require a certain… pedigree of experience. A level of logistical foresight you simply haven’t been exposed to.”
I felt the familiar, cold needle of her subtext. You didn’t have a mother to show you how “real” families do things. You’re an amateur in a professional’s world.
“I was thinking of something simple, Patricia. Wildflowers, maybe a small—”
