At my sister’s $320,000 wedding, right in front of 200 guests, my mother slipped an $800 check into my hand and whispered, “That’s all you deserve.” I stood there in an $89 black dress while white orchids spilled over every table at the Umstead in Raleigh and crystal light made everything look softer than it really was.

We told my family the following Sunday.

Victoria smiled politely, though it never reached her eyes. My father said, “That’s wonderful, sweetheart,” before returning to his newspaper. My mother looked at the ring for exactly one second, then turned to Victoria.

“Did you confirm the florist for the orchids?”

By then, the wedding planning had already become unstoppable. The Umstead Hotel in Raleigh. A planner flown in from New York. Orchids imported from Ecuador instead of roses because Victoria said roses were predictable. The budget had climbed past $320,000, and my mother talked about it the way people discuss home renovations: necessary, overdue, an investment in the right things.

My role in the wedding wasn’t discussed. It was assigned.

I would manage the guest-book table, a small podium by the entrance. Far from the ceremony, far from the reception, far from every photograph. My job that night was simple. I greeted guests, handed them a pen, and kept smiling.

A week before the wedding, Victoria had sent me a text.

You can bring Daniel. Just make sure he doesn’t start talking about freelancing with Nathan’s colleagues. It’s not really the same world.

I stared at that message for a long time. I should have responded. I should have said something. I didn’t. The wedding was five weeks away, and at the time I had no idea it would be the last time I ever sat comfortably at my family’s table.

The ballroom at the Umstead Hotel in Raleigh seemed designed to remind everyone exactly how much money had been spent. Crystal chandeliers hung low above long tables dressed in white linen. Each centerpiece rose in a sculpted tower of white peonies and trailing jasmine, with tall candles burning beside them and filling the air with tuberose and warm cedar. A string quartet played softly in the corner. Nearly 200 guests in cocktail attire filled the room. Gold-rimmed chargers gleamed beneath the place settings, each setting laid with three forks.

I arrived early, exactly as instructed.

My dress was black, simple, cap-sleeved, bought online from Nordstrom Rack during a 70 percent clearance sale: $89. I had tried it on three times in our bathroom mirror before deciding it would do. It was always going to be enough. No one was there to look at me anyway.

Victoria glided through the ceremony wearing a custom Vera Wang gown, her cathedral veil trailing behind her like a promise the world had already agreed to keep. She looked beautiful. She always did.

My mother, Francis Coleman, stood in the front row wearing champagne silk, pressing a monogrammed handkerchief to her eyes. And I remember thinking one simple thing as I watched her.

She has never looked at me the way she is looking at Victoria right now. Not once.

After the ceremony, I took my place at the guest-book table. I smiled. I passed out pens. I congratulated strangers who had no idea who I was.

One of my mother’s cousins, Linda Carter, leaned over the book as she signed. She wore pearls and smelled faintly of pinot grigio. She squinted up at me.