“You Don’t Fit This Event.”
I told her I came to surprise her.
I lifted the gift bag like proof that my intentions were good.
She looked me over — my Sunday dress, my neat shoes, the blanket I’d made stitch by stitch — and her face tightened.
She said Preston’s parents were inside.
She said they would ask questions.
She said I didn’t “fit” this event.
Preston appeared behind her, jaw tight, and said two words that told me everything:
“Handle this.”
Then a man in a dark suit stepped forward, polite and firm.
“Ma’am, please come with me.”
I didn’t argue.
I walked down the driveway while voices paused and eyes followed.
The gift bag felt heavier with every step.
I sat in my car for a long time, listening to the party float out of the house my name helped secure.
My shame was hot and sharp.
And then the heat cooled.
What was left wasn’t shame anymore.
It was clarity.
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