Just weeks before the wedding, I came home from a florist meeting to find shards of my mother’s treasured crystal set scattered across the kitchen floor like forgotten memories.
Sandra stood there, broom in hand, pretending to sweep, but her eyes told a different story—cold, victorious, like she had just conquered something personal. She didn’t even try to fake remorse.
“Oh, Jennifer,” she said, her voice coated in that sticky-sweet tone she always used when she wanted to sound innocent, “you really should be more careful with delicate things like that.”
My chest tightened, rage and heartbreak folding into one impossible knot.
“I didn’t leave them out,” I snapped, rushing forward to inspect the broken glass. My fingers trembled as I reached for a jagged piece—the delicate etching on the rim confirmed it. This was no accident. Those glasses had been carefully packed, stored in my closet in a padded box wrapped in my mother’s old shawl.
“I don’t know what you’re implying,” Sandra said coolly, standing a little taller. “They were just… in the way. I thought they were old junk.”
Junk.
That one word told me everything I needed to know.
This wasn’t a mistake. It was calculated.
You see, Sandra never liked reminders of my mom. After she married my dad two years after Mom died, she made it her mission to replace everything—photos, recipes, even the scent of the house. My mother’s favorite cinnamon oil mysteriously disappeared, and lavender sachets were replaced with something sterile and citrusy.
But I had held on to the crystal glasses. Hidden them. Protected them. And now they were gone.
She thought she’d won.
What Sandra didn’t know was that this wasn’t just about the glasses.
It was about the lie I’d let her believe.
When Dad remarried, I was still grieving. I didn’t fight it. I didn’t scream or rebel like the teenagers in the movies. I just watched.
Next page
