“You tried to control everything.”
“I paid for everything.”
The words silenced the nearest tables.
Tiffany’s father folded his arms and watched with an expression that almost looked amused.
Then Tiffany stepped closer.
“You’re nothing but a resentful old woman with money.”
Margaret’s fingers tightened around her purse.
For months, she had accepted every demand.
The guest list had grown.
The modest dinner had become an estate reception.
The simple flowers had become imported roses and orchids.
Every time Margaret hesitated, her son came to her alone.
“Please, Mom.”
“It’s only one day.”
“She’s under pressure.”
So Margaret kept signing.
Kept paying.
Kept pretending love required her to disappear.
Then Tiffany slapped her.
And something inside Margaret became completely still.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t yell.
She simply looked at her son one last time before walking toward the restroom.
No one followed.
Inside, Margaret locked the door and stared at her reflection.
The red mark across her cheek was already darkening.
Her hand trembled as she opened her purse.
Then she removed a small folder.
Inside were every contract connected to the reception.
The venue.
