Now, let me take you back six weeks to the night my father issued his ultimatum. It was a Sunday dinner at my parents’ house in Fairfield, Connecticut. A six-bedroom tutor style home my father loved to remind us he’d earned with his own two hands. The dining room gleamed with restoration hardware furniture and wedgewood china that my mother polished every week, as if perfection could somehow protect her from his accusations. My grandmother, Eleanor, sat at the far end of the table, her silver hair pinned back, watching my father the way a hawk watches a snake. My brother, Marcus, 31, and the golden child, kept his eyes on his plate. My mother, Diane, clutched her linen napkin like a lifeline, and then Gerald Townsen cleared his throat.
“I won’t be attending your wedding, Tori.”
The words landed like a grenade. My mother’s fork clattered against her plate.
“Gerald,” she whispered. “Please, not tonight.”
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