I don’t remind her that when Carter proposed to my best friend at my wedding, Mémère downed her wine and toasted to the end of an era, and then clarified that she was talking about his slutty era. I don’t remind her that she was at their wedding later that year, or that she held Ireland when she was two months old, remarking that Carter’s dimples were endlessly more charming in his daughter’s cheeks than his own.
