Three weeks after my son’s wedding, the wedding coordinator called and told me, Sir, I recorded something awful. Come alone, and do not tell your children. I went there expecting some kind of misunderstanding, but what she showed me changed everything.
My name is William Carter, and three weeks after my son’s wedding, the woman who had organized it called me as if she feared someone might be listening.
“Mr. Carter,” she said, her voice low, “I recorded something terrible. Please come alone. And don’t tell your children.”
At first, I assumed it had something to do with money. Maybe one of the vendors had charged too much. Maybe the florist had ruined something. My son, Ethan, had married a woman named Vanessa at an old vineyard estate outside Napa, and I had covered almost the entire cost because Ethan said he wanted one flawless day before real life became serious.
I was a widower. My two children were all I had left.
