MY SON’S FIANCÉE SAT AT SUNDAY LUNCH IN THE ADOLPHUS AND DEMANDED A $2M “DREAM WEDDING” LIKE I WAS AN ATM—WHILE HER MOTHER CALLED IT “FAMILY STANDARDS.” UNDER THE TABLE, MY SON SLIPPED ME A NOTE: “DAD, SHE’S A SCAMMER. HELP.” I STAYED CALM… AND LET HER KEEP TALKING. THEN I SAID TWO WORDS—AND HER SMILE FROZE… BECAUSE SHE REALIZED TOO LATE WHO SHE WAS REALLY DEALING WITH.

Vanessa touched her collarbone in what she probably thought was demure. “Three hundred thousand for my dress. Vera Wang is designing it personally. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime piece.”

Patricia chimed in with syrupy charm. “Our family has certain standards, Richard. Vanessa is our only daughter. We want her day to be perfect.”

I glanced at Kevin. Our eyes met for a heartbeat. In that instant, I saw something I hadn’t seen since he was ten and broke a neighbor’s window with a baseball: pure panic.

“Two million,” I said again, setting down my glass. “And you’re sharing this budget with me because…?”

Vanessa’s smile didn’t waver, but something cold flickered in her eyes. “Well, traditionally the groom’s family contributes significantly to wedding expenses. And Kevin mentioned that you’re comfortable.”

Comfortable. The word was a scalpel. Not wealthy. Not rich. Comfortable. A polite way of saying: we know you have money, and we know you’re the kind of man who will feel guilty if you don’t spend it on your son.

“I see,” I said.

I picked up the menu and scanned it as if this were any normal Sunday, as if a woman hadn’t just demanded two million dollars like she was ordering a second entrée.