“Transfer the estate or there won't be a wedding!” she snapped. I declined. My son told me to beg for forgiveness or leave. I smiled, walked out, and days later, my phone wouldn't stop ringing.

By Wednesday, the shockwaves of the financial cutoff had reached every corner of their superficial lives.

My attorney, Arthur, sat across from me in my hotel suite, sliding a manila folder across the table. “It’s moving faster than we anticipated, Eleanor. Without the trust subsidizing his lifestyle, Mark’s debt-to-income ratio is catastrophic.”

“Tell me about the cars,” I said, adjusting my glasses.

“The dealership repossessed the Porsche this morning. Apparently, Mark hasn't made a payment from his personal account in six months; it was all automated through the trust. When the trust froze, the payments bounced.”

I felt a brief, fleeting pang of maternal guilt, but I crushed it under the memory of Chloe waving her hand, telling me to get out of my own home.

“And Chloe?” I asked.

Arthur chuckled. “She tried to go on a ‘stress-relief’ shopping spree at Neiman Marcus yesterday. Four different credit cards declined. She caused quite a scene. She actually tried to use your name to open a store line of credit. The fraud department flagged it instantly.”

Just then, my new private phone buzzed. It was an unknown number. I put it on speaker.

“Eleanor!” A shrill, haughty voice barked through the speaker. It was Susan, Chloe’s mother. “What on earth kind of game are you playing? Chloe is in tears! You are ruining my daughter's wedding!”

“Susan,” I purred. “I’m not ruining anything. I simply stopped paying for it. Since you’re the mother of the bride, tradition dictates you foot the bill anyway. Congratulations on the big day.”