A conflict.
My tongue swelled, feeling too massive for my dry mouth. I hung up the phone. Three seconds later, my banking application delivered an automated push notification. The $2,800 deposit had hit the Family Wallet.
And simultaneously, my American Express pinged. A $2,800 charge had just been approved for Citrine Event Florals.
She had suffocated my son’s breathing to buy a wall of dead roses.
Chapter 2: The Glitter and the Ghost
I tried calling Lauren three times. It went straight to a bubbly voicemail. I texted my mother, my fingers striking the glass screen with venomous precision. Her reply arrived two minutes later: Honey, please do not pick a fight today. Ava only turns sixteen once. Let it go.
I possess an extensive, meticulously cataloged mental archive of every slip, slight, and insult I have allowed to slide past me. I remembered when I refused to fund a secondary DJ for Ava’s party, resulting in Lauren icing me out for a week. I remembered reclaiming my AMX for a single month to purchase a vital anesthesia machine for my clinic, only for Lauren to smear me to the extended family as a “controlling narcissist.” They had been quietly penalizing me every time the ATM dispensed the word no.
And as Noah and I walked into the grand ballroom of the St. Regis that evening, the penalty was put on full, blinding display.
The bass from the sound system thumped rhythmically against my sternum. Strobe lights sliced through a thick haze of theatrical fog. Right at the entrance, a perky event coordinator was distributing glittering holographic gift bags and neon blue VIP wristbands. One per cousin. The DJ was already roaring names over the microphone.
Noah stood beside me on his tiptoes, his navy tie slightly crooked, clutching a small, spiral-bound sketchbook he had spent three days converting into a custom birthday card for his favorite cousin.
