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.”

I make myself a promise. If the next slide is harmless, if it’s an old photo with a gentle caption, if it’s a real toast, if there’s even a scrap of decency in what they’ve prepared, I won’t press it. I’ll take the joke. I’ll go home. I’ll let them have their night.

I give them one last chance to be decent.

The screen changes.

My face fills the frame. An old photo from high school. Grainy, unflattering.

Across the bottom, bold white letters: High school dropout. Check mark.

Nervous laughter ripples through the room. A few people glance at me. I keep my face still.

Next slide. A cracked heart emoji beside my name. Divorced.

The laughter grows louder now, the kind that feeds on itself.

Next, an animated cartoon of an empty wallet flapping open. Broke.

Someone at table six snorts into their champagne.

Next, a photo of a single place setting. One chair, one plate. Alone.

Paige is laughing from the head table. Vivian sips her wine, watching the room like she’s scoring the performance.

Then the final slide loads. A clip-art baby with a red X stamped across it.

Infertile.

The word fills the 10-foot screen.