Chapter 3 - THE EMPTY CHAIR
"Payment guaranteed by mother."
I repeated the words aloud after Florence hung up.
They sounded like something a bank might print on a loan application.
Not something a son should write about the woman who raised him.
For nearly an hour, I sat in my office, staring at the velvet bag containing Caleb's cufflinks.
Then I opened my laptop.
My original agreement with Willowmere Estate was still there.
Forty-one thousand six hundred dollars.
Paid in full.
The contract clearly stated that any additional expenses required written approval from the person responsible for payment.
That person was me.
And I had approved nothing else.
I emailed Bryce.
Please send me the complete invoice for the $74,000.
He replied twenty minutes later.
Mom, why are you making this difficult?
I typed back:
Because I need to understand what you're asking me to pay.
His next message came immediately.
Joselyn already explained everything. Her family covered some last-minute expenses. We need to reimburse them.
I read that sentence twice.
So now it wasn't the wedding venue demanding payment.
It was Joselyn's family.
That was an important difference.
I called Bryce.
He answered with a sigh.
"Mom, I'm at work."
"This will only take a minute."
"Is this about the money?"
"Yes. You told me Willowmere Estate was demanding seventy-four thousand dollars. Florence says your account is paid."
Silence.
Then Bryce said, "Florence doesn't understand the arrangements."
"She owns the estate."
"That doesn't mean she handles every vendor."
"Then explain the vendors to me."
He sounded irritated.
"Joselyn's family helped us get things we couldn't have afforded otherwise."
"Such as?"
"Flowers. Extra arrangements. Transportation. I don't have the entire list memorized."
"Did I agree to pay for those things?"
"Mom, you told us you wanted us to have a beautiful wedding."
"I did."
"Then why are you questioning every dollar?"
I looked down at Caleb's photograph.
"When your father and I got married, we had forty guests in a church basement. Your grandmother made the cake."
"That was a different time."
"Yes. But even then, we asked before spending someone else's money."
He exhaled sharply.
"Joselyn said you'd react like this."
Something inside me went very still.
"What exactly did Joselyn say?"
"That you'd make us feel guilty for needing help."
I waited.
Then I asked the question that had been hurting me since the wedding.
"Bryce, why didn't you come outside when I arrived?"
He didn't answer.
"Your bride told me I wasn't welcome. She said her family only. Did you know?"
"What?"
His voice changed.
"Mom, Joselyn told me you weren't feeling well."
"I was standing at the entrance."
"She said you decided not to stay."
"She told me to leave."
Silence.
Then he said, "There must have been a misunderstanding."
"A misunderstanding?"
"Joselyn was stressed. We had nearly two hundred guests. Maybe she said something you took the wrong way."
I felt tears rising.
Not because of Joselyn.
Because my own son was explaining away my humiliation without even asking what happened.
"Bryce, she told me I never mattered to you."
He said nothing.
I waited for him to defend me.
Instead, he whispered, "Why would she say that?"
"That's what I want to know."
He promised to speak to his wife.
Then he returned to the money.
"So can you transfer at least half while we sort this out?"
I almost laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because even after hearing what happened, his first concern was still my checkbook.
"No, Bryce."
"Mom—"
"Not one dollar until I understand every charge."
He hung up.
That evening, Florence sent me copies of the event documents.
There was the original seating chart.
My name appeared at the family table beside the chair reserved for Caleb's memory.
Then came a revised chart.
My name had been crossed out.
Marlene Mercer, Joselyn's mother, occupied my place.
Beside the revision was a handwritten instruction:
Remove groom's mother before ceremony.
I stared at those words.
Then I noticed the initials beneath them.
B.M.
Bryce Morgan.
My son's initials.
For the first time, I wondered whether Joselyn had really acted alone.
I enlarged the photograph of the document.
There was another note, written beneath the first in different handwriting.
Groom aware. Do not discuss with Desiree.
I leaned closer.
The handwriting was unmistakably familiar.
May you like
I had seen those neat, slanted letters on Christmas cards and birthday notes.
They belonged to my son.
