My name is Colette Brennan. I was sixty-one, a widow, and a woman who had spent her life avoiding unnecessary conflict. After twelve hours of traveling from Whitehorse, I finally arrived at my only son Grant’s wedding at the magnificent Whitcombe Estate in Niagara-on-the-Lake. I wore my favorite dove-gray dress and carried a small velvet pouch containing my late husband’s cufflinks. Gordon had worn them on our wedding day thirty-four years earlier. I wanted to give them to Grant as a wedding gift.
But before I could reach the entrance, his bride, Cassandra, stepped outside with two bridesmaids behind her. She looked at me with a perfectly rehearsed smile.
“Her family only,” she said. “You never mattered to him. Please leave.”
I stared at her, waiting for someone to explain. I looked through the open doors, hoping my son would appear and tell her she was wrong. But Grant never came. So I simply whispered, “Of course,” and walked back toward the waiting car.
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