The night before my wedding, my future mother-in-law leaned in with a cold sneer. “I did my research. Pathetic—Patrick’s marrying an orphan.”

The rehearsal dinner was supposed to be a warm, celebratory evening—string glowing over the courtyard of the Harborview Hotel in Boston, soft jazz drifting beneath the chatter. But as I stepped outside to catch my breath, everything shifted.

The clicked shut behind me. When I turned, Margaret Ellison—Patrick’s mother—stood there, arms folded, lips curled in disdain.