The ballroom shimmered with gold that night, its chandeliers casting a warm, deceptive glow over laughter and champagne. My husband’s family filled the long table, smiling too perfectly, their eyes darting toward me as though waiting for a cue.
It was my thirty-first birthday. I should have felt celebrated. Instead, I was the centerpiece of a scene carefully scripted by my mother-in-law, Vivian—a woman who loved drama as much as she loved control.
“From all of us,” she announced sweetly, her voice ringing across the room.
Ryan, my husband, lifted his phone, the little red light blinking. His sister, Lauren, raised her camera too, her smile sharp and waiting. Continue reading…
