Fireworks, Flowers, and a Fault Line
September’s day was flawless—sun like a blessing, wind like a whisper. The ceremony sparkled, the reception shimmered. I was seated in the back with the dozing elders. Gifts were opened onstage beneath chandeliers—a family tradition, I later learned—checks with too many zeros, crystal in mahogany coffins, luggage worth more than cars.
My brown-paper parcel, tied with twine, was saved for last.
The Laugh
Cassandra lifted the quilt. For three seconds, the ballroom breathed. Then she laughed.
Not the surprised, touched laugh of gratitude—but a bright, brittle ring that sliced through glass and skin. “Oh wow—handmade? That’s… so rustic,” she said into the heated microphone. Bridesmaids tittered. “A basement treasure?” someone whispered. Laughter spread—effortless, expensive.
I rose. I walked out, slow and careful, past orchids, ice sculptures, and a mountain of money. I found the cool night air and an old fountain and pressed a hand to my chest until the world stilled. I would not cry. Not here. Not for them.
