a.m. tomorrow, or I swear to God, I will never forgive you.
I set the phone aside and walked to my closet, pushing past the garment bag containing my mother-of-the-bride dress. Instead, I pulled out practical clothes—jeans, a comfortable sweater, slip-on shoes.
Today would require mobility, not ceremony.
At my small kitchen table, I reviewed the documents I’d spent the night gathering: property deeds, bank statements, contracts with wedding vendors, and years of financial records meticulously organized in my old-fashioned filing cabinet.
The paper trail of maternal sacrifice laid
