“No… I was just wondering if it might be best if someone else acted as the event planner, that’s all. Someone more suited to handling such a big affair. Someone who doesn’t have a personal connection to the bride and groom.” Her fake serene smile chafes.

“They haven’t even made any decisions as to what kind of wedding they want. Why do you seem so sure I can’t handle it?” I somehow manage to keep my voice even.

“Every couple wants their wedding to be the biggest and best anyone has ever seen.” She looks at Finn and Zahra. “Isn’t that right?”

Zahra’s eyes are wide and it’s clear she doesn’t know what to say, but Finn is unfazed, used to this aspect of my relationship with my parents. “Mac can handle it, Mom.” He winks at me, and I know from experience that he’s thinking I should shrug off Mom’s comment. It’s just Mom being Mom.

“I don’t doubt your abilities, sweetie.” Her voice is placating, and it’s all I can do to keep my mouth shut. “I just want to make sure the day is perfect, and I don’t want you in over your head.”

I cross my arms and lean back in the chair, feeling like a petulant child. Even more so when I glance at Andrew, watching him bear witness to our little disagreement.

When I don’t say anything, she waves me off with a little shake of her head as though I’m the one being difficult and overdramatic. “Finn, have you considered having the wedding back home? We could do it at the country club. They just put an extension on and there’s a beautiful event room now.”

“Why would they want to do that, Katherine?” my dad questions.

She whips her head to look at him and narrows her eyes. “Why wouldn’t they consider it? It’s where he grew up. He has lots of memories there and the country club is beautiful. Not to mention it will cost a fraction of what a wedding in New York City will.”

My dad rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his drink. “They’ve built a life here for themselves. This is where they should get married.”

“Well, excuse me for wanting to explore all the options, Gregory. I guess that makes me a terrible mother.” She slams her wineglass down on the glass coffee table. Some of the wine sloshes over the rim, but by some miracle, the glass doesn’t break.

“Jesus Christ, Kath, you always do this.” My dad tosses back what’s left of his drink and sets his glass on the table as well.

“Do what?”

Their voices grow louder, and soon they’ll be outright screaming at each other. This is always how it starts—with some small slight that turns into something more.