Our wedding was intentionally simple. Micah and I couldn’t afford the extravagant celebration my wealthy sister Lorna considered acceptable, so we chose a tall tower of glazed donuts with a small cake in the center. It looked beautiful, tasted amazing, and represented exactly what we wanted. My mother loved it. Lorna didn’t. She stood beside the dessert table in her designer dress, staring at the donuts with open disgust. “You actually served that at your wedding?” she asked loudly. Guests nearby turned toward us. I smiled and said we were happy with our choice, but she continued making jokes about how a proper wedding deserved something expensive.

The following morning, Micah, my mother, and I met at a quiet diner. Micah had barely touched his coffee. Then he reached into his jacket and placed a folded piece of paper inside a plastic sandwich bag on the table. “I found this after everyone left,” he said. I unfolded it, saw Lorna’s signature beside Victor Ashworth’s name, and read the first sentence. My hands immediately began shaking.