My husband, Mark, was frozen by the napkin dispenser. His hand hovered in mid-air, a statue of domestic terror. His face had drained of color, turning the shade of old, wet newsprint.

The room waited. The parents, sensing the sudden drop in barometric pressure, paused with plastic forks suspended over paper plates.

I didn’t freeze. I didn’t faint. I felt a cold, crystalline calm settle over my skeleton. This was it. The moment the universe had finally decided to drop the other shoe.

“Chelsea,” I said. My voice was cheerful, loud enough to carry to the back of the room. “So glad you could make it.”

She tilted her head, a flicker of confusion dampening her smugness. She had expected tears. She had expected a scene where she was the young, vibrant victor and I was the frumpy, blindsided wife. She thought she was staking territory.