Mother,” Robert said as we approached. His voice didn’t rise in greeting; it plummeted in disappointment. “You’re… here.”

“Happy wedding day, Robert,” I said, leaning in. I smelled expensive cologne and the faint, acrid scent of anxiety.

Before I could embrace him, Tiffany stepped between us. She moved with the aggressive grace of a swan protecting its territory. Her eyes—cold, predatory blue—scanned me. She started at my sensible orthopedic shoes, the ones necessary because of the shattered tibia I’d suffered in Beirut in ’89, and traveled up to my simple faux-pearl earrings. She didn’t look at me as a person; she looked at me as a smudge on a camera lens.

“Robert,” she hissed, her voice a low frequency weapon designed to shatter confidence. “Look at her. We discussed the aesthetic. This is… unfortunate.”