The tension in the room was a physical weight, heavy and suffocating. Beside me, Marcus’s brother, Dane, shifted in his seat, his face draining of color. My best friend and Maid of Honor, Tessa, was already half-out of her chair, her knuckles white as she gripped her champagne flute, ready to intervene.

But it was too late.

“Thank you all for being here to celebrate Marcus today,” Dolores began, her voice sugary sweet, the kind of tone one uses when speaking to a slow child. “My son has always been special. He is kind. He is generous. He is caring to a fault. Sometimes… too caring, if you ask me.”