I’m a 68-year-old widow from a West Virginia coal town, stepping into a New York marble hall for my billionaire son’s wedding for the first time—only to spill a tray of champagne, get screamed at by the “old-money” bride in front of everyone, and watch her pretend she didn’t even know me; then my son’s voice turned cold, he walked to the microphone… and the entire room changed in one breath. My name is Connie Lawrence, and my hands have never been the kind people admire up close. They’re the kin