Chapter 1: The Change Order
“I’m just calling to confirm the change your mom requested,” Marisol said. “The full coastal package. Shrimp cocktail station, crab cakes, lobster bisque, and the seafood paella instead of the herb chicken.”
I was sitting at my kitchen table with a hot glue gun in one hand and a stack of place cards in the other. Ninety-four of them. I’d done sixty-one. The glue gun dripped a thin string onto the card that said Carol Hart, Table 2.
My mother’s card.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Say that again?”
“The menu swap. We got the email Sunday night.” Marisol sounded cheerful, the way she always sounded, like a woman who’d fed a thousand weddings and loved every one of them. “Your mom said it was your idea, but you were slammed at work, so she was handling it. I just like to hear it from the bride. Three days out, you know?”
I set the glue gun down on its little wire stand. My hand wasn’t steady.
“Marisol. My mother is allergic to shellfish.”
A pause.
“Like, allergic allergic,” I said. “Anaphylactic. She carries two epinephrine pens in her purse. She ended up in the ER from steam off a pot of crab legs at a restaurant in 2019. That’s why the contract says no shellfish anywhere. Not in the kitchen. Not on the trays. Not in the stock.”
“I know,” Marisol said slowly. “I wrote it. That’s why I called.”
I stood up. I don’t remember deciding to.
Here’s what you need to know. I’m a pediatric nurse. Ryan and I are paying for our own wedding, because that’s what grown-ups do, and because my parents gave what they could, which was a lot for them, and his parents gave nothing. Not a check. Not a centerpiece. Not a phone call to ask if we needed help.
I paid Marisol’s deposit from my own savings. Eleven thousand dollars. I picked her because she was the only caterer in Sacramento who’d walk me through her allergy protocol line by line. Separate prep. Separate utensils. A kitchen that hadn’t seen a shrimp in its life.
And then there was Linda.
At the tasting in August, my future mother-in-law had pushed the herb chicken around her plate and sighed like it had personally insulted her.
“Tyler’s going to be so disappointed,” she’d said. “He loves shrimp. He’s been talking about a shrimp tower since Ryan proposed.”
Tyler is Ryan’s younger brother. He’s twenty-seven. He lives in Linda’s guest house rent-free and calls it “taking a gap year.” Linda calls him her baby. Everyone else calls him what he is, but only when she can’t hear.
“My mom has a severe allergy,” I’d said, for maybe the fifth time that year. “We can’t have shellfish anywhere.”
And Linda had smiled at me with all her teeth and said, “Your mother can just eat the bread, sweetheart. It’s one day.”
Ryan had squeezed my knee under the table. Let it go, the squeeze said. It’s my mom. She doesn’t mean it.
I let it go.
Now, on the phone, Marisol cleared her throat. “Jenna, the email didn’t come from your mom’s address. It came from yours.”
“Mine.”
“Your Gmail. Signed with your name. It said you were swamped and your mother was helping, and not to call because you were on twelve-hour shifts.” She hesitated. “I’m guessing that’s not true.”
“I didn’t send any email.”
“Okay.” Her voice changed. Calmer. Careful. “Then here’s the problem. I already placed the seafood order with my supplier on Monday, and I released your chicken order to free up the cooler. If we’re switching back, I need to know today. And Jenna… there’s a cancellation fee on the seafood.”
I barely heard her. I’d already pulled my laptop across the table and opened my email.
My inbox looked normal. Vendor confirmations. A coupon for shoes. My aunt asking about parking.
I clicked Sent.
And there it was, sitting right under my RSVP spreadsheet, time-stamped Sunday, 11:52 p.m. I’d been asleep by ten after a double shift.
Subject line: Menu change, please confirm.
