He stopped beside my chair. His eyes locked onto mine. He was smiling, but there was something sharp underneath. The same sharpness I had heard months earlier when he told his friends, “She used to be a mom, but she failed.”

“Hey, Aunt Steph,” he said now, voice light and singsong. “Grandma says you do not belong here.”

The words landed cleanly. Precisely.

Then he tipped the cup.

Cold soda poured into my lap, soaking the front of my dress instantly. I gasped as the shock hit my skin. Sticky sweetness spread down my thighs and dripped onto the floor.

For a single heartbeat, the room was silent.

Then it erupted.

Laughter. Loud. Unrestrained.

“Oh, Tyler,” Irene cackled.

“That is my boy,” Mike said proudly. “Savage.”

I grabbed a napkin with shaking hands. It tore immediately, leaving scraps of white clinging to the wet fabric. That only made them laugh harder.

I looked at Tyler. He stood there, chin lifted, eyes bright, waiting. Waiting to see if he would be rewarded.

I looked at my mother.

She was smiling. Not cruelly. Not kindly. Amused. As if she were watching a show she enjoyed.