I filled the plate myself: two slices of roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans, and a dinner roll. Then I slipped the ring off my finger and placed it beside the gravy. “Here’s your ring, Mrs. Pruett,” I said. “Supper comes with it, and we’re cutting the cake at eight. I’d like you to stay.”

She stared at the plate, her keys trembling in her hand. Nobody moved. Then the side door opened, and Wesley appeared in his rumpled tuxedo shirt, mud on his shoes and red eyes. He looked at his mother. “Mama, don’t take anything else from her. She doesn’t owe us a dime.”

In front of 175 guests, Wesley confessed everything. There was no honeymoon cruise. His mother had given him $9,000 to book it, but he had gambled away every cent betting on online ball games. He had hidden the truth for months, and when his mother asked to see the tickets that morning, he panicked.

Mrs. Pruett sank into a folding chair. She had sent her daughter to demand money from me to cover her own son’s gambling losses. She took the offering envelope from Daddy, tore it into pieces, and whispered, “Lacey Ann, I am so ashamed.”

Wesley apologized to me and Daddy before walking out alone. I gave Mrs. Pruett the ring anyway. It had belonged to her mother and deserved to stay in her family. She remained at the reception, accepted a cup of coffee from her sister-in-law, and finished every bite of her supper.

At eight, she stood beside me as I cut the cake. When the band began playing, Elmer crossed the room in his brown wedding suit, bowed to Grandma Opal, and offered her the first wedding dance of her eighty-nine years.

Then Daddy danced with me, my white sneakers squeaking across the VFW floor. Nobody left until midnight. Wesley entered a recovery program that winter and repaid his mother over three years.

I never married Wesley. His mother still sends me a Christmas card every year, signed with love. Two years later, I married a kind man who always shows up early. Grandma Opal danced at that wedding, too.