The wedding invitation wasn’t an invitation at all; it was an invoice with tiered pricing, demanding a minimum of five hundred dollars for a “Bronze Contribution.”
It was a crowdfunding campaign for a marriage.
My own sister called it practical. She insisted her daughter deserved a perfect day, and that real love meant investing in their future.
This wasn’t about celebrating a union. It was a business transaction, and every guest was expected to pay up.
They cashed every last check, but the real bill for their greed was about to come due in a way no one expected, and I had a front-row seat for the spectacular collapse.
The Gilded Cage
The first time Jessica mentioned money, it was subtle. A silken thread woven into the tapestry of her engagement party. My sister Carol’s backyard was strung with fairy lights that twinkled like a captured constellation, and the air smelled of grilled shrimp and freshly cut grass. My niece, Jessica, floated through the crowd in a white linen dress, her hand permanently linked with her fiancé, Kyle’s. They looked like a casting call for a jewelry commercial.
Mark, my husband, nudged me as he handed me a glass of prosecco. “They look happy,” he said, his voice a low rumble of contentment. He was right. They were radiant, their smiles so wide and bright you could have read by them. I felt a familiar swell of affection for Jessica, the little girl I used to babysit, now a woman on the cusp of a new life.
Later, I found her near the dessert table, meticulously arranging macarons. “Aunt Sarah,” she beamed, “I’m so glad you and Uncle Mark could make it.”
“We wouldn’t miss it, sweetie. This is beautiful.”
“It’s just a preview,” she said, her eyes gleaming with an intensity that was almost unnerving. “The wedding is going to be… an experience. Kyle and I have a very specific vision.” She gestured vaguely at the tastefully arranged party. “We want to start our lives off right, you know? On a solid foundation.”
It was the way she said “solid foundation” that pricked at me. It sounded less like a metaphor for love and trust and more like something an accountant would say. I chalked it up to pre-wedding jitters, the modern pressure to perform a perfect life for Instagram. I smiled, squeezed her arm, and told her whatever they chose would be wonderful. It was a lie, I’d later realize, but at the time, it felt like the right and loving thing to say.
An Invoice Disguised as an Invitation
The invitation arrived a month later. It was a marvel of paper engineering, thick as a credit card and letter-pressed in gold foil. A calligrapher had clearly been paid a handsome sum to loop our names across the front of the heavyweight envelope. It felt less like an invitation and more like a summons.
Inside, nestled between sheets of vellum, was the main card detailing the time and place—a historic, ridiculously expensive downtown church—and a smaller, equally opulent card. It was titled, “Our Wishing Well.”
My brain short-circuited for a second. A wishing well? I pictured a charming, rustic pail for cards. But the text that followed vaporized that quaint image. It explained that in lieu of traditional gifts, they were requesting “monetary contributions” to help them build their “dream future.” It was corporate jargon for “give us cash.”
And then came the tiers. I had to read it twice, my coffee growing cold in my hand. The “Bronze Contribution” of $500 would get you a “special thank-you on their wedding website.” The “Silver Contribution” of $1,000 earned you that, plus a “personalized digital photo” from the honeymoon. The “Gold Contribution” of $2,500? Website mention, photo, and a “champagne toast in your honor” at the reception. And for the truly insane, the “Platinum Circle” of $5,000+ came with all of the above and an invitation to a “private post-honeymoon brunch.”
I dropped the card on the kitchen counter as if it were contaminated. It was a business proposal. A crowdfunding campaign for a marriage. Mark walked in, saw my face, and picked up the card. He read it, his eyebrows climbing higher with every sentence. He set it down gently, looked at me, and said the only thing that could be said. “Are they out of their goddamn minds?”
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