He phoned after the wedding I was never invited to and asked me for the key to my Malibu house for his honeymoon. I congratulated him, ended the call, and let three days go by. Then I left a quiet little “wedding gift” at his door, and whatever his wife found inside made her scream without stopping.
“We’re already married, Mom. Send me the key to the house in Malibu.”
That was how my son, Ethan Mercer, told me he had gotten married.
No invitation. No conversation. No warning. Just a call at 8:12 on a Tuesday morning, his voice smooth and rushed, as though he were ordering room service instead of announcing a life decision. In the background I could hear waves, laughter, and a woman asking whether the “beach content” would still happen by sunset.
