But Abigail didn’t mind. She knew her wedding was perfect, with the service at her home church in Simsbury and the reception at the country club down the road on a beautiful August day with a pink, green, and white color scheme. She didn’t remember fighting with her mother once. They organized the whole event in a weekend. Her two bridesmaids—her favorite cousin, Candace, and her prep school roommate Bernadette, who would later become Aunt B—wore pink floral dresses with pouf sleeves, dyed-to-match pumps, and green gingham headbands. Headbands! George and the groomsmen were in blue blazers, white pants, and green gingham ties. They didn’t write their own vows or hire a dance teacher to choreograph a first dance because, of course, they’d gone to dancing school and could fox-trot fine to the Eagles’ “Peaceful Easy Feeling.” Her father gave a charming toast using quotes from Carole King’s Tapestry in an attempt to be relevant even though the album was decades old at the time. They spent their wedding night at a B and B on the way to Vermont for the honeymoon. The inn smelled like it had been soaked in tea rose perfume. George sneezed all night. She wouldn’t change a thing.

“Couples now want a three-day marathon with all the monogramming and signature cocktails. Even the table numbers must make a statement. I’m not sure all the fuss makes for a better event, never mind a better marriage,” Abigail said. “Imagine being stuck with a lifetime supply of monogrammed matchbooks when the divorce happens a year later.”

“Somebody had their cup of cynicism this morning. Too much red wine last night?”

Last night, when Abigail and George arrived home, Sarah was up making a late-night omelet and drinking pinot noir. George was thrilled to leave his wife and daughter together in the kitchen and head to bed. The silent treatment on the train ride home was enough punishment for the tent faux pas. Abigail filled Sarah in on the details of the evening and over the course of an hour, they polished off the bottle of wine.

“Not me. Up bright and early doing the flowers for tomorrow. I’m fine,” Abigail lied. She was a tad hungover and planned on getting into bed by eight to recover her good mood for the engagement party. “I hope this doesn’t spiral out of control. I’ve spent the last two weeks on every wedding site on the web and I don’t understand why on earth every woman at the wedding needs a logoed pashmina. Can’t they bring their own wrap?”

“Our generation doesn’t own wraps.”