I called David. “Chief,” I said, slipping into his old nickname. “Explain this insanity.”

There was a pause. Then a deep sigh.

“It’s Dorothy,” he muttered. “Emily’s mother.”

“…Okay?”

“She’s planning to show up in her own wedding gown.”

I nearly choked. “She’s what?”

“She’s done it before. Bridal shower, engagement party—every time, she finds a way to make it about her. She said she wants to ‘remind people what a real bride looks like.’”