Our half.
I stood there in my wedding dress trying to understand what she meant.
To Linda, the cards our guests had brought were apparently not gifts to Daniel and me.
They were revenue.
She had helped pay for the wedding.
Guests had given money.
Therefore, in her mind, she was entitled to recover what she had spent.
That was how she saw it.
Like an investment.
Money out.
Money back in.
Except those envelopes weren’t just money.
They were my aunt driving four hours and writing us a check.
My college roommate giving more than she could comfortably afford because she wanted to help us start our life.
Our grandparents writing messages in shaky handwriting.
They were evidence that people loved us.
And Linda was putting them into a tote bag.
Behind me were two hundred guests.
A photographer.
Music.
Dinner.
The whole wedding.
I had absolutely no idea
