“This,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the shredded navy fabric dangling from my hands, “actually suits you better than what you usually wear. It makes a statement.” She paused, letting the word hang in the air before delivering the strike. “Desperate. Honest.”

I turned slowly. My pulse was thrumming in my neck, a hot, frantic rhythm, but I forced my face to remain a mask of stone. My voice was low, steady, trained by years of holding back tears in this very room.

“Why would you do this?”

My mother didn’t blink. She didn’t flinch. She just looked at me with the bored expression of someone watching a dull television show. “You always make everything about you, Hannah. It’s your brother’s weekend. It’s Brandon’s big moment. Maybe it’s time you accepted your place.”

My Aunt Carol cackled from the doorway. She was leaning against the frame, a glass of Chardonnay in her hand despite it being barely eleven in the morning. Her teeth were stained slightly purple.

“She’s right, sweetie,” Carol slurred slightly, her eyes glittering with malice. “Honestly, maybe with a few holes in your dress, some desperate man might finally take pity on you. Might even find a date for the wedding, huh?”