Chapter 3 - Beth’s Perfect WeddingBefore I could announce the house, Beth announced that her wedding budget had increased.
We were sitting at a seafood restaurant near the harbor. My mother had ordered wine for the table, although I was the only person expected to pay the bill.
Beth placed a glossy brochure beside my plate.
The cover showed a luxury estate overlooking the Pacific.
“We changed venues,” she said.
Her fiancé, Jason, was not present. He rarely attended our family meetings because he had learned that Linda treated every gathering as a negotiation.
“What happened to the hotel ballroom?” I asked.
“It didn’t feel special.”
“The deposit was nonrefundable.”
“Mom handled it.”
I looked at Linda.
She lifted her wineglass.
“The new venue is more appropriate.”
“For what?”
“For a Simpson wedding.”
Our family had no social status, inherited wealth, or tradition requiring a coastal estate. My father repaired commercial heating systems. My mother had worked part-time as a florist before retiring. I was not ashamed of any of that.
Linda was.
She had spent her life trying to appear wealthier than we were.
“How much is the new venue?” I asked.
Beth smiled.
“Forty-eight thousand.”
I nearly dropped my fork.
“For one day?”
“It includes the gardens.”
“Are the gardens coming home with you afterward?”
My father coughed to hide a laugh.
My mother glared at him.
Beth opened the brochure to photographs of chandeliers, terraces, and ocean views.
“It’s my wedding.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“We’re only short by seventy-five thousand for the full budget,” Linda said.
I stared at her.
“Only?”
“The venue, catering, flowers, photography, dress alterations, guest transportation, and honeymoon.”
“How much are Beth and Jason contributing?”
Beth’s smile weakened.
“Jason is paying for the rings.”
“And you?”
“I’ve been planning everything.”
Planning, in Beth’s world, was a financial contribution.
My mother placed her hand over mine.
“Joanna, we know you’ve been saving.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“How do you know?”
“You’ve always been responsible.”
“That doesn’t mean my savings belong to Beth.”
“No one said they belong to her.”
“You’re asking me for seventy-five thousand dollars.”
“We’re asking you to support your sister.”
My father studied the tablecloth.
There it was again.
Support.
Sacrifice.
Family.
My mother could turn any demand into a moral test.
“I’m not paying for the wedding,” I said.
Beth looked stunned.
“You haven’t even heard the full plan.”
“I’ve heard enough.”
“What are you doing with your money that’s more important than my wedding?”
I could have avoided the question.
Instead, I reached into my handbag and placed a photograph on the table.
It showed me standing in front of the Cypress Lane house, holding the blue key ring.
“I bought a home.”
For several seconds, no one spoke.
My father looked at the photograph and smiled.
“You bought that?”
“I closed on Thursday.”
“That’s wonderful.”
His pride lasted until my mother turned toward him.
Then he fell silent.
Beth picked up the photograph.
“This is in Monterey.”
“Yes.”
“How much did it cost?”
“That’s private.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You used the wedding money.”
“There is no wedding money.”
“Mom told me you had been saving to help me.”
I looked at Linda.
She did not appear embarrassed.
She appeared irritated that I had exposed her too early.
“I never promised that,” I said.
“You didn’t have to,” Linda replied. “We are your family.”
“I saved that money from my paychecks.”
“And who allowed you to live at home while you began your career?”
“I paid you more than market rent.”
“That money helped raise Beth.”
“Beth is not my child.”
My sister threw the photograph onto the table.
“So I get nothing, and you get a house?”
“You are getting married. You’re not being punished.”
“You knew how important this was to me.”
“And owning a home was important to me.”
My mother pushed her chair back.
“You will reconsider.”
“No.”
“Then we’ll discuss it at the house.”
“You are not invited to the house.”
The entire table went quiet.
My mother leaned closer.
“You don’t speak to me that way.”
For once, I did not look away.
“It is my home,” I said. “I decide who enters.”
May you like
That was the moment the conflict stopped being about money.
It became about control.
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