Stop the ceremony! I won’t let my son raise a child that isn’t his!” the mother-in-law screamed, pointing at the bride’s growing belly. The bride steadied herself, wiped away a tear, and calmly took the microphone. “You’re right—DNA doesn’t lie,” she said softly. “That’s why this official report shows you took a newborn from a hospital twenty years ago… and raised him as your own.” Sirens echoed outside. The groom turned pale and whispered, “Then… who are you to me?” as the chapel doors swung open.

The dressing room smelled of lilies—Margaret’s favorite flower, not mine. The scent was cloying, thick and heavy like funeral air, suffocating the delicate notes of the lavender perfume I had chosen for myself.

Margaret stood before the floor-to-length gilt mirror, adjusting the lace on her own gown. It was champagne-colored, technically, but in this lighting, it looked suspiciously like a wedding dress. It was beaded, corseted, and designed to draw the eye. She turned left, then right, ignoring me completely. I sat quietly on the velvet ottoman, my hand resting protectively over the small, four-month bump of my stomach