Kristen screamed, finally losing the polished mask. “This is all your fault, Denise! You’re just cheap—”
Her voice broke into a shrill wail as officers guided her toward the door. My father tried to argue, tried to insist on family rights, but each protest sounded weaker under flashing lights and recorded proof. My mother sobbed, clinging to my father’s arm, still trying to play the victim of consequences.
The sirens outside swallowed Kristen’s screams as the patrol cars pulled away.
And then, in the wake of all that noise, silence settled over the villa like dust after an explosion.
Relatives stood scattered across my living room, stunned. The party food sat untouched. Balloons I’d let Kristen insist on—“It’ll look festive!”—hung limply near the ceiling, suddenly grotesque.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. It felt like exhaling years.
I turned toward the room.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and my voice softened now that the threat had been removed. “You came here today to celebrate my birthday and my new home. And you had to witness something ugly.”
My uncle stepped forward, older than my father but gentler, with the kind of steady presence I’d always wished my parents had.