My sister blasted “INFERTILE, DIVORCED, FAILURE” across a 10-foot screen at her wedding while 200 guests laughed—my mother sipped wine, my father called it “just a joke.”

“Thea, you’re walking into a room where your family has already loaded a weapon. I’m just making sure you have access to the safety switch.”

By Wednesday, Marcus is confirmed as a freelance AV technician for the Whitmore-Lindon wedding reception. He’ll have direct access to the projector system, the USB inputs, and the soundboard.

I prepare a short presentation. Not an attack. Just the truth. Photos, degrees, awards, my actual life.

Title slide: The Real Thea Lindon.

I save it to a USB drive and hand it to Marcus on Thursday.

“You’re not going to war, Thea,” he says. “You’re going to a wedding. But if they fire the first shot, you’ll be ready to fire the last.”

One week before the wedding, Harold clears my name at the front desk. Thirty minutes supervised. Vivian will accompany me.

Shenandoah Hills smells like hand sanitizer and boiled vegetables. Vivian parks herself in a chair in the hallway, already texting. She doesn’t come in.

Grandma Ruth is smaller than I remember. Her white hair is thinner. Her hands shake.

But her eyes, those sharp, knowing eyes, haven’t changed.

She grabs my hand the second I sit down.

“Let me look at you.”

She studies my face.