I looked at my son—truly looked at him. He worked at a small advertising agency in Midtown. Good job, but not great. Taylor didn’t work at all beyond her lifestyle influencer Instagram account with seventeen thousand followers, which as far as I could tell meant posting photos of brunch and giving advice about handbags.
“How much does Sophie’s dream wedding cost?” I heard myself ask.
Avery reached into his briefcase and pulled out a glossy brochure. The cover showed a sprawling estate with white columns and manicured gardens. “Green Valley Estate,” he said. “It’s in Westchester, about an hour north of the city.”
I took the brochure and studied the photos—a grand ballroom with crystal chandeliers, outdoor terraces overlooking a lake, gardens with stone pathways, tables set with fine china and gold-rimmed glasses, floral arrangements that looked like waterfalls of white roses and peonies. It was beautiful, undeniably so, the kind of venue you see in magazines.
“It’s gorgeous,” I admitted.
Taylor pulled out her phone, and I recognized the excited animation in her voice that I’d heard countless times before—the tone she used when she wanted something expensive. “There’s a full-service package. The venue includes the ceremony space, cocktail hour on the terrace, reception in the grand ballroom, tables and chairs, linens, and basic lighting. That’s thirty-five thousand.”
I tried not to react, though my heart sank. Thirty-five thousand dollars for one day.
“Then there’s catering,” Taylor continued, scrolling through her notes with practiced efficiency. “They have this amazing package with passed hors d’oeuvres, plated dinner—we’re thinking filet mignon and lobster tail—open bar, champagne toast, wedding cake for two hundred guests. That’s twenty-eight thousand.”
I did the math quickly in my head. Sixty-three thousand already, and she was still talking.
“Sophie found the most incredible dress,” Taylor went on, her voice taking on a dreamy quality. “Vera Wang. It’s like something a princess would wear. Twelve thousand, but you should see her in it, Mama Amelia. She looks like an angel.”
Mama Amelia. Taylor had started calling me that five years ago, shortly after Sophie graduated high school. It had felt forced then. It still did.
Twelve thousand dollars for a dress she’d wear once. I thought of my own wedding dress in 1973—forty-five dollars from a department store, and I’d felt like a queen in it.
“The flowers,” Taylor said, “we want white roses and peonies everywhere with elegant greenery. The florist quoted fifteen thousand for ceremony arrangements, reception centerpieces, bouquets, boutonnieres, everything.” She tapped her screen. “Photography and videography package is eight thousand. The band—Sophie wants live music, not a DJ—is seven thousand for five hours. There’s also invitations, programs, favors, transportation, hair and makeup for the bridal party.” She trailed off. “It adds up quickly.”
