I turned my gaze to Lily, so small and still beneath the harsh ICU lights, and made up my mind.
I would attend the party.
And they would regret forcing me to.
The following evening, I stepped into my parents’ house dressed in a plain black dress, my expression composed, every emotion sealed tight. The living room buzzed with guests—friends, colleagues, neighbors—all gathered to celebrate Victoria. She stood at the center of it all, radiant, laughing loudly, thriving on the spotlight.
When she noticed me, her smile stiffened.
“Well, if it isn’t you,” she said for everyone to hear. “I assumed you’d come up with another excuse.”
I didn’t respond. I simply handed my mother a gift bag. She barely looked at it.
You could have put more effort into your outfit,” she murmured. “People might assume you’re not doing well.”
I smiled politely. “I’m fine. Really.”
The night dragged on, filled with quiet jabs disguised as humor. Victoria went on and on about her husband’s career, her new car, her upcoming trip. Eventually, she lifted her glass and announced, “I’m thankful I never gave up when things got difficult. Some people choose shortcuts and still don’t get anywhere.”
Laughter rippled through the room, and several gazes slid toward me.
That was when my phone rang.
