At my sister’s wedding, I was quietly sitting with my 5-year-old son when he suddenly clutched my arm and whispered, “Mom… we need to leave. Now.” Confused, I asked what was wrong. His voice shook as he said, “You didn’t look under the table… did you?” I leaned down to check—and the moment I saw it, I froze.

In the parking lot of the Grand Harbor, a sprawling, long-established hotel on the outskirts of Boston, the October wind carried the crisp scent of dying leaves. I gripped the hand of my five-year-old son, Jacob, tight enough to turn my knuckles white. The afternoon sun washed over us, illuminating the black cocktail dress I had chosen. It was elegant, appropriate, yet secretly, it felt like mourning clothes.

Today was my sister Sophia’s wedding day.