“Money can’t buy happiness,” my mother used to say.
“Find love. Don’t end up like me. I married for money, and just look where it got me. I love you girls, but I wouldn’t choose this life for anyone else.”
A small part of me felt guilty; my mom’s dying wish was for us to find love, but I was marrying a millionaire.
He was snooty, stupid, and racist.
He was my fiance.
I picked up my cell phone to call Julia, my “perfect” older sister.
She had been bragging about her doting husband and flawless twins for years.
It was time for payback.
“Hello, Julia,” I calmly said. “I have news .”
She quiered. “What is it?”
“I’m marrying Richard Winston next week.”
“What?!” She squealed. “But I thought you hated him.”
“I do,” I replied.
“Then why?”
“Because he’s rich and I need money.”
“Have you looked at any newspapers recently?”
“No, why?”
“Richard Winston is broke. He lost everything.”
“It’s too late to call off the wedding.”
Julia said she would bring over ice cream and a chick flick.
But I was still doomed.