The Gift on the Table
The ceremony began.
I carried a small wrapped gift. White paper. Silver ribbon.
On the tag, I’d written in cursive: “A little something to remember that life has a way of balancing itself.”
I placed it on the gift table, then lingered nearby, pretending to make small talk with some guests.
No one paid attention. They were too busy admiring the “happy couple.”
The priest’s voice echoed through the room. Vows. Rings. Promises of forever.
It was surreal watching them—my husband and my mother—pledge their lives together in front of people who thought it was a love story instead of a crime scene.
When they kissed, the room erupted in applause.
I clapped too, smiling.
They thought that was the end of it.
Press Play
At the reception, the atmosphere buzzed with champagne and laughter.
Diane beamed under the fairy lights, Aaron couldn’t stop grinning, and everyone seemed charmed.
I waited. Patient. Calm.
When the moment felt right, I slipped the USB from my clutch and into the laptop connected to the venue projector.
No one noticed.
Then I hit play.
The music cut off. The lights dimmed slightly as the projector came to life.
At first, people assumed it was a wedding montage.
But the first image that appeared made the room go still.
Diane, in my living room, wearing my robe, sipping wine. Aaron leaned close to her, whispering, “She’ll never find out. We’re untouchable.”
A collective gasp.
Someone dropped a glass.
“Is that…?” a voice murmured.
I stood back, silent, watching.
On screen, my mother laughed—my laugh—sitting in the home that used to be mine.
The audio was clear: “Claire’s so naive. I almost feel bad for her.”
The room erupted.
“What the hell is this?” Aaron hissed, spinning toward me.
I tilted my head. “A little something I put together,” I said.
“Turn it off!” Diane snapped, her voice shrill.
But I didn’t move.
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