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When I finally slept, it was with a determination that surprised me. A steely resolve to maintain the perspective I had gained. James arrived precisely at 2 p.m.
Using his key to enter without knocking. The casual assumption of access, which had never bothered me before, now struck me as presumptuous. Another boundary to establish.
He stood in my kitchen doorway, looking both familiar and strangely like a stranger. At 32, he was the image of his father. Tall.
Conventionally handsome. With the confident posture of someone who expected the world to accommodate him. Which I realized with a pang, I had always ensured it did.
“James, would you like some coffee?”
I kept my voice level—neither the overwarm maternal tone I typically used, nor the cool distance I had felt in Aspen. “I don’t want coffee, Mom. I want an explanation.”
He remained standing while I sat at the kitchen island.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done? The embarrassment you’ve caused?”
“Vanessa’s parents had to cover the cost of the engagement party themselves when they’d been counting on your contribution as the groom’s mother.”
I blinked, genuinely surprised. “I was never asked to contribute to a party I wasn’t invited to attend.”
“The bride’s family handles the event. The groom’s family contributes. It’s tradition.”
“Being invited is also tradition,” I pointed out quietly.
“As is consulting both families about the guest list.”
“It was Vanessa’s parents’ event, their social circle, which somehow included Caroline Williams—whose family I’ve worked with for years—but not me.”
I kept my voice calm. Factual. “James, let’s be honest.
I wasn’t excluded because I wouldn’t fit in with the guests. I was excluded because Vanessa or her family didn’t want me there, and you went along with it.”
He had the grace to look momentarily discomforted. Then rallied.
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