“I’m sorry you all had to see this,” I said quietly. “But I’m not sorry I showed you the truth.”
I set the microphone on the podium and walked off the stage.
By the time I gathered my coat, the party was effectively over. The string quartet had packed up. The catering staff were clearing untouched appetizers. The three-tier cake sat uncut beneath the gold balloons, a monument to a celebration that had never quite happened.
My mother sat at a corner table, staring at nothing.
My father stood beside her, one hand on her shoulder, looking like he had aged ten years in an hour.
Near the exit, Aunt Linda found me.
“Myra,” she said gently. “How are you holding up?”
“I don’t know yet.”
It was the truth.
The adrenaline was fading, leaving something raw and uncertain in its place.
“You did the right thing,” she said. “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but you did.”
