I watched my daughter glide around in great‑grandmother’s lace, the one beautiful thing our family had managed to keep through the years. She looked radiant, absolutely glowing with that new‑bride energy that makes everyone temporarily forget their own problems. But as the guests filtered in, the social hierarchy became crystal clear. Marcus’s parents swept in like visiting royalty. His mother, Patricia, was dripping in enough diamonds to blind passing aircraft. She worked the room with surgical precision, air‑kissing the important people while somehow managing to look straight through me like I was furniture.

“Excuse me,” I told the frazzled usher, showing my table assignment. “I believe there’s been a delightful mistake here.”

“Table 12, ma’am.”

“Right behind the decorative feature.”

“Decorative feature,” how diplomatically they put it. I was being hidden behind enough flowers to supply a funeral home. I navigated to my designated exile, which offered a spectacular view of absolutely nothing except hibiscus and baby’s breath. From my horticultural prison, I could watch the festivities unfold in the large mirror across the room. There I was—Sylvia Hartley. Seventy‑two years of accumulated wisdom, tucked away like last week’s newspaper.