“What’s our budget like?” Kate asks, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She has a pen poised over a brand-new spiral-bound notebook and is clearly in her element.

“I have some money saved,” I say. “Not a lot, though.”

“How much?”

“Five grand, closer to five and a half.”

Amanda sucks in air between her teeth. “Is that enough for a big farewell party?”

“Probably not,” I say.

She frowns thoughtfully. “What if we…”

“What? What if we what?” Kate asks when Amanda trails off mid-sentence.

Amanda shakes her head. “Nothing.”

“I called this morning about refunding the airline ticket,” Mum adds. “The lady was nice and agreed these are extenuating circumstances. That will add another couple of thousand. Plus your father and I can rustle up a bit more.”

I put a hand on her arm gratefully. “No, Mum, the ticket money is enough.”

“We’ll see.”

“So seven grand, give or take?” Kate asks.

I nod, feeling inadequate.

She scribbles it down in her notepad. “OK.” She nods. “It’s a good start. I nominate myself to be in charge of expenses, so any and all, and I mean all, expenditures related to the wedding must come through me. No matter how trivial you might think, it all adds up and I’m not having the budget blown out on my watch. I want receipts for everything. Everything. Understood?”

My mother, Amanda, and I look at each other and then burst into laughter.

“Too much?” Kate asks wryly.

“You might want to dial the crazy down a notch, yeah,” Amanda says.

“Well, anyway.” Kate consults the pad in front of her. “I think the best way to do this, unless someone has a better idea, is to make lists for everything and then delegate. I’ve taken the liberty of preparing these ahead of time,” she continues, pulling a Filofax folder to her lap and undoing the clasp with barely concealed glee. She lifts out different-colored manila folders and lays them out on the table. On the front of each is a sticker with a task written on it. I read a few.

DRESS

VENUE

FOOD/DRINK

PHOTOGRAPHER

MUSIC

FLOWERS/PROPS

There are others too, but I can’t read them all from where I’m sitting. Seeing them, I realize the magnitude of planning that needs to be done, and I lean back in my seat, exhaling softly, suddenly feeling very tired.

“What’s wrong, what is it? Are you in pain?” My mother is on me in an instant, her face creased with worry. She places the palm of her hand on my forehead to check for fever, the way she did when I was little and coming down with something.

“A mother’s hand is a better judge than any thermometer,” she’d say back then, pulling me in against her and kissing my head soothingly. I can still recall how comforting that felt, listening to her heartbeat through her chest against my ear.

“You’re a little hot,” she says now. “Maybe we should take you to the hospital.”