At my grandson’s wedding, they seated me in a hidden corner “because I might need quiet.” As the future bride walked past, she brushed against my cane. Her little boy, from a previous relationship, hurried over and picked it up for me. Then he whispered, “Great-Grandma… she hid a photo in her shoe. Do you want me to… spill something on it?”

They say the devil wears Prada, but I’ve found he—or rather, she—prefers custom-made Vera Wang and a smile that doesn’t quite reach the eyes.

I sat in the corner of the Grand Ballroom at The Plaza Hotel, wedged between a decorative ficus tree and the swinging double doors that led to the catering kitchen. The air here didn’t smell of the thousands of white Casablanca lilies that choked the centerpieces; it smelled of stale dishwater and the frantic sweat of waiters rushing to serve filet mignon to people who wouldn’t eat it.