Pride swelled in my chest. My granddaughter—twenty-five years old and brilliant. I still remembered teaching her to bake cookies in this very kitchen, her tiny hands covered in flour.
“Mom,” Avery continued, and I saw something cross his face. Hesitation. “Sophie’s getting married.”
The world seemed to tilt sideways for a moment. “Married? But she never told me she was seeing anyone seriously.”
“It happened fast,” Taylor explained, leaning forward with that practiced enthusiasm I’d seen her use in her Instagram videos. “She met Marcus at an internship last summer. He proposed at Christmas in Aspen. It was so romantic—right on the ski lift at sunset.”
“That’s wonderful news,” I managed, though my hands trembled slightly as I set down my cup. My granddaughter was getting married, and I was just finding out now, four months after the proposal. “When’s the wedding?”
“In September,” Avery said. “Saturday, September 14th.”
Six months away. “We wanted to tell you in person,” Taylor added quickly, clearly reading the hurt on my face. “Not over the phone. This is too important.”