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“She’s yer mum.”

“She’s a walking liability claim. Oh, man, my renter’s insurance premium is going to go through the roof.”

We glare at each other.

Hamish sighs and pulls on a pair of track pants that hang off his hips, like Jeremy Allen White in a Calvin Klein ad. “Ye canna leave her oot there sobbin’ on the path like a rejected soap opera character.”

“She threw a rock at my house .”

“It’s a statement, no’ vandalism. She meant no harm.”

“It’s a rock! ”

“Look, if we let her in, she might stop makin’ that noise, that howlin’ . She's making a scene, and I should know. Look at ma mum.”

I peek back out the window.

Mom is now sitting on my front step, fixing her makeup . She's going nowhere.

“Fine,” I snap. “But she’s paying for the window.”

“Fair.”

I buzz her in and open the door.

Mom bursts in, a hurricane made of Lululemon and judgment, tears pouring down her face and a smear of lipstick on her cheek, like war paint.

“Do you know what that woman said to Katie? Katie! Sweet, capable, doesn’t-take-any-bullshit Katie! She told her that Amy was–was using you to get access to the McCormick fortune and that–oh my God, is that blood?” She gasps, pointing at a trickle of tomato sauce from last night’s pizza on my tee.

“No. That’s DiGiorno.” I step aside so she doesn’t trip over Hamish’s brace, which he’s now using as a makeshift doorstop.

"What McCormick fortune? We've no money–that's the American McCormicks who are loaded."

“She wants to destroy your love,” Mom continues, eyes darting wildly. “And she’s gone rogue. I begged Katie not to cancel anything, but she said Fiona is a menace and that if you two don’t intervene, the whole thing might implode like a Costco wedding cake in the sun.”

"Mom, Katie would never say that to you."

"Well, she implied it. I can read people, honey. Trust me."

Hamish wraps an arm around me and looks at her with that mix of son-in-law charm and international hostage negotiator calm.

“Marie, we’re sortin’ it. But ye owe Amy a window. And mebbe a fruit basket.”

Mom looks down at the rock on the rug.

“Oh. Well. I’ll call Jason. He can fix it for you. No need to file a claim.”

She blinks, then hiccups.

This morning just keeps getting weirder.

Hamish starts making a pot of coffee, giving me a few seconds to think, and I realize that some of those buzz buzz buzz- es on our phones must have been Mom.

Yep.

Thirty-seven texts from her.

One from Dad.

Mom's are all variations on Fiona canceled the wedding , all within the last 70 minutes. Mendon, Massachusetts, where my parents live, is about 50 minutes away. Mom must have sped like a bat out of hell.

Dad's text simply reads: Mom's on her way and she might do something foolish. Check in with Wedding Protectors.

Only then do I see two texts from Katie Cooper. The first:

Hamish's mother is making wild allegations about the nature of your relationship and using those as leverage to try to cancel the wedding. Don't worry, we've dealt with this kind of thing before. But I wanted to warn you. She's intense. We've created a response team for Code Fiona.

"Code Fiona?" I whisper.

Her second text is simpler:

If you and Hamish choose, Archie can assign a team to go with you to Luview, Maine. Just say the word.

"Word," I hiss.

I text back: Have you developed a Code Marie?

To my surprise, three dots appear instantly, then:

We call that a Code Chuckles.

Huh. Our family cat has an emergency wedding protocol named after him. The little dude has a legacy.

My mother just showed up and threw a rock through my window for not answering the door buzzer in under 2 seconds. Stay tuned.

She responds with: We're always tuned :)

I turn my attention to Dad's text and see he’s added a second message:

Mom texted me about the window. Can you send a photo and measurements? I'll try to fix by end of the day if I can.

I walk into the kitchen and look in my junk drawer. "Have you seen the tape measure?" I ask Hamish, whose brow furrows.

"No. Why?"

"Dad's offering to fix the window. I need to measure it and take pictures for him."

"Jason is a treasure."

For some reason, that sentence makes me burst into tears.

Not a cute single tear rolling down my cheek like I’m in a Nicholas Sparks movie. No. This is a full-on, scrunched-face, snot-activated, shoulder-hitching sob session. All because my fiancé just called my dad a treasure .

And my mother is currently drying her tears with a tissue that might actually be a $42 microfiber cleaning cloth from Restoration Hardware.

“Oh, love,” Hamish murmurs, wrapping his arms around me to create the warmest, thickest security blanket ever to rock a knee brace. “It’s all gonna be fine. This is just noise.”

“I’m so tired,” I sniffle. “We had sex twice and then fought with your mom and my mom and did, like, five sets of trauma squats and I was forced to sip a butter beer. I don’t even know what’s happening anymore.”

“Ye’re happenin’. We are.” His voice is low and sure, and his lips graze my forehead, thumb wiping a tear from my cheek.

“This? This is the chaos before somethin’ beautiful, Amy.

It’s like a storm, aye? It rips up the coast, makes ye think the house’ll go wi’ it, and then the calm sets in and the sunrise looks like nothin’ else on earth. ”

“That’s either really profound or the trauma smoothie talking.”

“Bit o’ both.”

I sniffle again, wiping my nose with the back of my hand like a toddler. “Katie texted. Your mom really is trying to cancel the wedding. They’ve created a whole protocol called Code Fiona.”

He lets out a low whistle. “Sounds like a bloody tornado drill. For a mum.”

“It is.”

Marie perks up from where she’s seated on my living room chair. It’s a throne made of lies and tears. “Well, if Fiona thinks she’s calling off this wedding, she’s got another think coming.”

Hamish and I both move toward her at the same time, every muscle in my face bracing for impact.

“I’m stepping up,” Marie declares. “I’m not letting that kilt-clad dictator ruin my daughter’s happiness.

We will have a wedding, all right. And not just any wedding.

I’m talking full glam, all-out, white-glove service at Farmington Country Club.

We can call in favors, bring in hothouse peonies, monogrammed ice cubes, horse-drawn carriages, swans wearing flower crowns?—”

“We are no’ havin’ swans with accessories,” Hamish whispers to me.

“They’re dignified birds!” Marie cries. “They’re the queens of the lake!”

“Those queens are vicious bastards,” Hamish claps back.

Marie ignores him. “I’m serious, Amy. You want a wedding? I’ll give you the wedding of the century . Fiona can eat her tartan hat.”

I can’t.

I just… can’t .

While Mom fumes and plots, Hamish pulls me back into the kitchen. “It’s time,” he says in a low voice.

“Time for what?”

“To elope.”

I stare at him.

He’s dead serious.

“No more battles between Queen Marie and General Fiona. No more tea-light warfare or passive-aggressive floral arrangements or weaponized email CCs. Just us. Simple and real. No swans.”

“I don’t hate the flower crowns,” I admit.

His eyes go wide with mock horror. “Ye really are Marie’s daughter.”

I grin. “You love it.”

“Aye. I love you . That’s the only thing I care about.”

He kisses me softly, fingers threading through my hair, and even though my nose is still runny and there’s a rock on my living room rug and a broken window and my mother is now texting all the students in her yoga classes about Operation Wedding Reclamation, I feel it.

Peace.

It’s him. Hamish is where happiness goes to grow. He's a happiness garden.

“Let’s do it,” I whisper back. “Soon.”

Hamish grins. “Thought ye’d never say it.” We laugh softly, together. "Who needs a weddin’?"

Unfortunately, that last sentence was a little too loud.

“You’re still having a wedding. Fiona does not get to ruin this!” Mom calls from her corner.

"Of course," we both lie, although technically, we're not.

Lying, that is.

We'll have a wedding.

Just not the one she wants.