I was a fool. I actually thought, for a fleeting second, that this was her way of making things right. I thought she’d saved the day.
When we arrived at her house on Sunday, the living room was packed. Family and close friends were all squeezed onto the sofas.
The album sat on the coffee table.
Beverly stood beside it, her hands folded neatly in front of her.
“I just think it’s important to celebrate family,” she declared as she opened the album with a dramatic flourish.
The air left my lungs.
There was a photo of Brandon and me standing at the altar, saying our vows while Beverly hovered nearby, and below it, one of Brandon and me exiting the church.
There was just one thing missing — me!
Beverly had cut me out of every photo.
She hadn’t used a computer to edit me out. She’d used scissors.
My dress was sliced away. My arm was missing from Brandon’s side. There were jagged, white edges where my face should have been. In every single photo, I was a silhouette of negative space.
It looked like a wedding between a groom and his mother.
“You cut me out,” I whispered, tears springing to my eyes.
Beverly gave me a sweet, pitying smile. “Oh, honey, the lighting wasn’t flattering for you. I just fixed it.”
The room went silent. I looked around, but nobody said a word. They just stared at the mangled pages.
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