You really thought a janitor’s daughter could afford a seat at MY table, Hannah?

I opened the folder and slid a single document toward the centerpiece. ‘My dad worked at Mercer & Hale for thirty-one years,’ I said. ‘He cleaned the same offices every night. But in 1998, a junior analyst left a panicked voicemail on a desk phone — talking about shredding documents before an SEC visit. My father saved that tape. He never used it. He said good people don’t blackmail, they just keep receipts in case the world forgets to be fair.’ Vivienne’s wine glass paused halfway to her lips. Because the junior analyst in 1998 was her husband, Gregory — now a senior partner, seated three chairs down, suddenly very pale. ‘Dad gave the tape to a lawyer before he died,’ I continued. ‘Not to ruin anyone. Just insurance, in case the family who looked down on him ever tried to look down on me.’ I closed the folder gently. ‘I wasn’t going to mention it. I was going to walk in here tonight, smile, marry your son, and let the past stay buried with my father. But you called him a janitor like it was a stain.’ Gregory cleared his throat, eyes locked on the tablecloth. Vivienne’s smirk cracked into something smaller, uglier — fear. Ethan finally looked up. ‘Mom,’ he whispered, ‘apologize. Now.’ She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. Nothing came out. I slid the engagement ring off my finger and placed it on top of the folder. ‘Keep the ring, Ethan. A man who lets his mother insult my dead father at our rehearsal dinner isn’t ready to defend a wife.’ I picked up my clutch. At the door, I turned back once. ‘My father mopped your husband’s floors for thirty-one years, Vivienne. Turns out he was the cleanest man in that building.’ I walked out into the cold Connecticut air, and for the first time in eight months, I felt my dad walking beside me again.