Holy hell. Please not more desserts, I’m about to burst, I thought, miserably.

“These are for you, ma’am. To read aloud, or for after the dinner.” She set the basket down beside my barely touched tiramisu and stepped away.

The basket contained tiny white pieces of paper notes, which were folded into neat, little squares.

“What is this?” I asked, looking from Tinsley to Mara.

“Those are your well wishes! We all wrote them for you. You know how women do them at baby showers? Like, advice for new moms and shit? I thought we could all give you some new marriage advice, or well wishes for your future marriage,” Mara explained. Her words were slurred now, too; she lifted her wine again, taking a deep sip.

“Oh wow. This is so sweet,” I said, slowly rotating the basket. “And the basket itself is lovely, too. What a thoughtful idea. Thank you.” I’d been smiling so much and saying thank you so often, that my mouth and cheeks felt numb.

The food and champagne rumbled in my belly, and I fought back the urge to excuse myself and go lie down.

“Should I read them now, then?” I looked over at Tinsley. She was leaning back in her chair, ghostly white and arms crossed. Wow. She really is pissed off about that cake tradition, I realized.

Tinsley shrugged.

“Yes, but only if you want to,” Mara said. But I could tell she wanted me to; she was sitting on the edge of her seat, elbows on the table, centimeters away from taking a dip in whipping cream.

“Yes, read them!” Bri bellowed, then she let out a long, low burp that startled her mother beside her.

“Bri Michaela, excuse you,” Elizabeth snapped. For the first time ever, Elizabeth looked truly disgusted with her drunken daughter.

I held back another giggle. Michaela was Bri’s middle name, huh? I wondered how often her mother had used her middle name, or Asher’s, when she scolded them as children.

I lifted the first note in the basket and carefully unfolded it. Despite the stress of my concerns over Asher and the mild tension at the table, I couldn’t help feeling a small rush of joy. My friends, family, and soon-to-be in-laws had written kind notes for me. I was a lucky woman to have this many people celebrating my marriage to Asher…

The note was simple but sweet. I read the words aloud: “Never go to bed angry. Tell your spouse you love them, even when they’re getting on your last damn nerve.”

I looked up and smiled, then folded the note back and set it aside.

“Thank you,” I said, for the millionth time. “But I don’t know who wrote it. Are they all anonymous?” I looked around the table, searching their eyes, wondering who wrote that one. Maybe Mara or Georgia, I thought. It seemed too nice to be from Elizabeth or Bri.