Then, Ting, ting, ting.

Gregory Hart, my father, tapped his champagne flute. The music stuttered and stopped. The chatter faded into an expectant hush. He stood near the towering seven-tiered cake, immaculate in his custom tuxedo, the picture of paternal pride.

But I wasn’t looking at his smile. I was smelling the air. The scent of high-end bourbon rolled off him in waves, cutting through the flowers. To everyone else, he was the charming patriarch. To me, that smell was a precursor to breakage, to slammed doors and quiet tears.

“Welcome,” he boomed. “Welcome, friends, family, and to my new son-in-law, Ethan.”