“Go change, you look cheap!” my dad laughed after Mom ruined my dress. I returned wearing a general’s uniform. The room went silent. He stuttered, “Wait… are those two stars?”

“I’m fine,” I said quietly, adjusting the hem of my dress.

She finally looked at me then, her eyes flicking over my simple navy fabric with open disappointment. “That dress doesn’t belong in a room like this. You look… underwhelming.”

Before I could answer, she shifted forward as if to greet someone, her heel catching the edge of the carpet in a way that was far too deliberate to be clumsy.

The glass tipped.

The wine didn’t spill—it was hurled.

Cold liquid soaked through my dress instantly, blooming dark and unmistakable across the fabric. A few nearby conversations stalled. Someone gasped.

“Oh no,” my mother said softly, placing a hand to her chest. “I am so sorry. You stepped right into me.”

I stared at the spreading stain, then up at her face, where apology and satisfaction danced far too closely together.

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