The caterer mixed up two events the wedding and a corporate retirement party across town. Marianne’s guests received a buffet labeled “Congratulations, Harold, on 35 Years of Accounting Excellence.” The menu cards said things like “Excel-lent Salad” and “Spreadsheet Soufflé.”

People rolled with it. Her Uncle Leo made a toast about how marriage, like accounting, required “balancing debits and credits.” The band even improvised a song called “Love Adds Up,” which included a kazoo solo.

Meanwhile, the wedding cake three tiers of white chocolate perfection somehow ended up at Harold’s retirement. What they received in exchange was a sheet cake with “We’ll Miss You, Harold!” written in neon-green icing. Marianne and her new husband decided to cut it anyway, pausing only to scratch Harold’s name out with a butter knife.

The dance floor was no safer. The groom’s cousin attempted a backflip and landed directly in the punch bowl. The flower girl insisted on performing her own “interpretive dance” to every single song, even during the father-daughter dance, which meant Marianne’s dad was waltzing while a six-year-old flapped around like a bird in crisis beside them.

And then came the sparklers. Someone thought it was a good idea to hand out lit sparklers indoors. By miracle, nothing burned down, though Marianne’s new mother-in-law lost part of her eyebrows. She claimed later it was a fashion choice.

Through it all, Marianne was laughing. Truly laughing. Even when her dress tore at the hem. Even when the photographer tripped and captured fifty consecutive photos of the ceiling fan. Even when the DJ accidentally played the Chicken Dance six times.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs.