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“Don’t hug me! You smell like manure!” my bride snapped at my sixty-two-year-old mother in the middle of our wedding reception. She said it while my mother was smiling and opening her arms for a hug, with more than a hundred guests close enough to hear the insult. What my new wife did not seem to understand was that the woman she was humiliating was also the person who had quietly paid most of the bill for the elegant country-club wedding—and still controlled most of the family fortune Ashley talked about as if it already belonged to us.