At my bridal fitting, my fiancé’s mother looked me up and down in a $14,000 gown and said, “White is for girls who have a real family waiting at the end of the aisle.” And while the entire salon stood frozen, my fiancé lowered his eyes and said nothing.

But in that moment, while his mother’s words still hung in the air for everyone to inspect, Miles looked down at the carpet as though the weave of it had become unexpectedly fascinating. He did not say my name, he did not tell her to stop, and he did not step toward me.

His silence spread through my chest like cold water. Beatrice smiled, almost sadly, as though she were the gracious one willing to say what others were too refined to mention.

She adjusted the cuff of her silk jacket and glanced around the salon with the faint awareness of an audience. She enjoyed an audience because women like her always called it poise when they possessed it and impropriety when anyone else did.

“I’m only trying to spare you embarrassment, Camille,” she said. “These things matter in our circles since white has meaning and tradition has meaning, so one should be respectful of both.”

Tabitha, Miles’s younger sister, shifted her designer handbag higher on her arm and looked away before I could catch her eye. Aunt Josephine gave a tiny, approving nod, as if Beatrice had merely corrected an error in place settings at a formal dinner.