I’d met Charles eleven months ago. We were engaged five months to the day after we met. Whirlwind to say the least, and Charles was the most perfectly put-together whirlwind you’ve ever seen. Never a hair out of place, never a spot of food on his tie, or a piece of spinach in his teeth. The spinach would never dare.

But any piece of spinach would love to get the chance to lodge there. Charles Preston Sappington was the man about town, the bachelor every woman from San Diego to Santa Barbara had been trying to land for years. Any piece of spinach would count herself extremely lucky to be trapped between his pedigreed teeth; it was the dream tiny spinaches were told by their spinach mothers. Tall. Handsome. Rich. Good family. And if you do as you’re told, you too can go for the brass ring.

I was Miss Golden State. He was my final tiara after a lifetime of pretty and prancing. Now I could go quietly into that beautifully manicured good night, my wedding veil firmly in place. And a silent scream in the back of my throat.

With that comforting thought—and if by comforting, I mean abject terror—I turned out my light.

Toss. Turn. Toss. Turn. Toss. Turn. Tears.

Looking back, I wish I could tell you there was one particular thing that tipped the scales and made me run away from my wedding. But all I know was that from the moment I set my feet on the floor that morning, I knew something was off. And not just my stomach, although that had been burbling and gurgling since 3 A.M. Too much artichoke soufflé? I’ll never tell.

I ate oatmeal practically every morning of my life. Steel-cut oats, the slightest sprinkling of Splenda, fresh fruit (blueberries were my mother’s preferred choice—antioxidants are our friends), with a splash of nonfat milk. But today when I shuffled into the kitchen, I saw something I had never seen there before.

Donuts.

Actual. Beautiful. Sugary. Fatty. Gorgeous. Donuts.

Like, with the sugar and the fat.

I looked around to make sure that, yes, I was still in my own house. My oatmeal bowl was set out, place mat and utensils laid with care, as it was every day. Slow cooker was plugged in, with my preportioned amount piping hot and ready for eating. The small pitcher of nonfat milk sat by my place setting, holding exactly a half cup of gray, watery, not-so-much milk.

But . . . did I mention there were donuts?

On reflection, I was wrong when I said I didn’t know what tipped the scales that morning. Donuts were where I went off the rails.

Taking one more look around to make sure no one was there to witness this culinary mortal sin, I walked over toward the platter. And regarded the donuts, piled high and arranged with attention toward making a beautifully delicious display. These confectionary wonders, these puffy delights, these sugary and fatty diet cheats—I chose one toward the back, sticky with chocolate glaze and full of spite toward every diet I’d ever been put on.

I was a slim girl; genetics plus a Southern California lifestyle had made me so. Part of the reason I won Miss Golden State is due to the fact that I look exactly like every picture of the “Wish they all could be” variety of a California Girl. Long blond hair. Tan. Tall; not so much curves as there were hills and valleys; strong from running, tennis, Pilates, yoga, you name it. I’d nevertheless had it drilled into me from a young age that skinny was better, and to enforce that, nary a donut was ever brought into this home. Of course, I’d had them at friends’ slumber parties occasionally. And when I turned sixteen, and realized that a driver’s license and a little bit of baby-sitting money allowed me the freedom to eat anything and everything—which, to be fair, resulted in a weight gain of eleven pounds and a very stern lecture by my mother on health and wellness, and a ban on baby-sitting—I’d indulged occasionally when my mouth wasn’t under supervision.

But again: never in my life had I seen a donut in my own home. And then in my hand. And then in my mouth. And then . . . perhaps a second?

Somewhere around the third donut, my mother walked in with my wedding planner, Terrance. By the screech that came out of her mouth, you’d have thought she’d found me holding a bloody knife, not an innocent cinnamon twist.

Then she said quietly, “Those donuts are for the help today, Chloe.”

Frankly, I preferred the screech. Her quiet meant danger. She also failed to notice that Terrance flinched when she said “the help,” but in that moment, I didn’t care. It was every man for himself. Or herself.

Normal, chastised Chloe would have nodded, put down the donut in an apologetic fashion, and exited the room quietly, knowing that this indiscretion would be mentally catalogued and trotted out sometime in the future, typically when I least expected it. I was a twenty-four-year-old woman who still got a “talking to” when my mother thought it necessary. As the years went on I’d tolerated them with a sense of almost bemusement, but lately the control she exerted over my life—which I’d frankly allowed her to have—had worn thin.

I knew there’d be a critical remark later today, when I’d need to take a bigger-than-normal breath to be sewn into my wedding dress. And for whatever reason, I decided to draw a line in the sand—with my big, luscious donut.

I crammed four inches of heaven into my mouth, chewed, breathed through my nose, and took the other four inches, then grinned, calories and twenty-four years of silent “go fudge yourself, Mother” rioting through my bloodstream. It was a heady mix. Swallowing, I calmly licked my fingertips, never taking my eyes off my mother.

True to form, she remained cool. “Terrance, I wonder if you’d be so good as to set up in the living room? I imagine the hairdresser will be here any moment, and I want to make sure everything is as it should be,” she said with a regal dip of her head.

Terrance shot a stifled grin my way, snagged a cinnamon twist of his own, and went where he was told.

I was alone with my mother.

“Now, Chloe, I’m sure you didn’t mean to be as rude as you just were. What must our wedding planner think? A gorgeous bride, stuffing her face just hours before she’ll be sewn into the wedding gown we’ve spent months preparing your body for. As it is, we’ll be lucky if the buttons don’t pop.”

I let out a tiny but defiant burp.

My mother sighed and looked at the counter. And as she did, I realized it was the single most reliable expression she had on her face when it came to me. She was always sighing, if she wasn’t pushing. She was always sighing, if she wasn’t shushing. She was always sighing, if she wasn’t detailing exactly what I had done wrong.