n the morning of my wedding, I stood in the bridal room wearing my white gown, hoping for a single moment of family peace. My mother, Margaret Stone, had proudly walked both of my sisters down the aisle at their weddings as if they were fragile miracles wrapped in lace. Instead of offering me that same maternal warmth, she looked at me coldly and announced that she refused to walk her greatest regret to the altar. The room fell completely silent as my veil trembled between my fingers. Behind my mother, my sisters, Paige and Lauren, exchanged satisfied smiles because they had always enjoyed watching me feel small. Paige adjusted the expensive diamond bracelet our mother had helped buy for her, while Lauren whispered a cruel taunt about my cheap makeup.
At twenty-nine years old, I looked at my calm reflection and realized I was still the unwanted child who had been forced to sleep in the attic while my sisters enjoyed luxury suites and trips to Paris. My father, Thomas Stone, stood near the door in his gray tuxedo and defended my mother, claiming I had always been a difficult daughter. In their eyes, being difficult meant asking what happened to my college fund, wondering why my grandfather stopped writing letters, and choosing a career as a forensic accountant instead of marrying for money.
