During dinner, my stepmom’s parents asked me, “Where did you get those lovely earrings?”
I smiled softly and said, “My mom gave them to me before she passed. I wear them every day to feel close to her.” My stepmom quickly interrupted, her voice sharper than the clink of silverware.
“Oh, actually, that’s not entirely true,” she said with a too-bright smile.
“Those earrings came from me. You must be… misremembering.” The table went silent. My fork hovered in midair. I stared at her, heat rising in my chest not from anger yet, but from the dizzy shock of someone rewriting my own history right in front of me. Her parents exchanged awkward glances, clearly uncomfortable.
My stepmom reached for her wine glass, swirling it like she’d just made a harmless correction instead of erasing one of the last pieces of my mother I had left. I felt my throat tighten. I could have let it slide. I could have laughed it off to keep the peace. But then, I saw it the faint, smug smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She knew exactly what she was doing.
And suddenly, I realized this wasn’t about the earrings at all. It was about control. About how, piece by piece, she’d been trying to replace my mother not just in the house, but in my memories. And tonight, in front of her family, she thought she’d get away with it.