My name is Myra Andis. I’m 32. The night my sister’s fiancé called my mom trailer park trash, I was already 6 months into building the federal case that would put him in prison.
We were standing in the Sterling family’s foyer, marble floor, crystal chandelier. My mom in her best denim jacket ironed twice, Trent Sterling in a $400 polo. He thought I couldn’t hear him whisper to his groomsman behind the screen by the bar.
He was wrong. My mother is the strongest woman I know. She raised two daughters on a 47 acre farm in Berks County, Pennsylvania.
After my dad died of a heart attack in 2014, she survived a winter once on canned green beans and pride. And one Saturday in June, the man my sister was going to marry whispered 14 words that started a clock. What I did over the next six months and what happened at the altar is something the Berks County Chronicle is still writing about.
But the only person who really knew the whole plan was my mom. And even she didn’t know all of it. Welcome back to the channel.
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I read everyone. Now, back to that foyer. I picked mom up at the farmhouse at 4 in the afternoon.
The dinner started at 6. The drive to Chester County took 40 minutes. She came out onto the porch in the denim jacket she’d ironed and the same navy blouse she’d worn to my law school graduation.
Her hair was pinned up. The wedding band from my dad’s funeral hung on a thin gold chain around her neck. “Do I look okay?” she asked.
“You look like my mom.” She smiled and got in the Ford Escape. The sun was low. The fields along Route 422 were that late June green that makes you forget winter exists.
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