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The velvet chair in the corner of the grand Hawthorne Hall ballroom was supposed to hold my wife, Elena. Instead, it held a trap.  I knew something had gone terribly wrong with my son the moment I stepped into that side corridor earlier in the afternoon and saw his new bride, Vanessa, secretly spreading thick lines of industrial-strength super glue across the cushion. Standing just a few feet away, keeping watch like an accomplice in a petty heist, was my son, Daniel. He wasn't stopping her. He wasn't warning her. He was laughing.