“Let’s give the couple some space, shall we?”
Beverly approached us during the reception with a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. She was smiling, but it was the kind of smile a cat gives a mouse.
She reached out to hug Brandon, and the glass tipped. The dark red liquid splashed across my skirt. The stain spread like a wound.
“Oh, goodness! I’m so sorry. I tripped.”
There was nothing for her to trip on. She stood perfectly balanced on her heels.
“Mom, what the heck?” Brandon snapped.
The dark red liquid splashed across my skirt.
Beverly did not apologize. Instead, she clutched her chest with both hands.
“My heart,” she wheezed. “Brandon, you’re upsetting me. The stress is too much.”
I watched as our guests rushed to her side. Beverly’s sister and nieces escorted her away while whispering their concern.
I went to the bathroom with my maid of honor to try to rescue my dress. We eventually got the worst of it out, but the damage went deeper than a stained dress.
I watched as our guests rushed to her side.
I told myself she was just being dramatic. That it would end after the wedding.
I was wrong. It was only the beginning of a long, cold war.
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