“Call 911!” someone yelled from the back.

A younger cousin, eyes wide with terror, hiked up her dress and ran toward the venue entrance for help. Tyler was moving before I could even blink. He was on his knees beside his mother, his face pale, his tuxedo jacket slipping from one shoulder.

“Mom? Mom!” his voice cracked.

“She’s choking,” a groomsman shouted, moving to perform the Heimlich.

“No!” I said, my voice cutting through the noise. “Don’t touch her throat. Look at her skin.”

But she wasn’t choking. Not in the way they thought.