“Thank you, son, for this celebration!” declared my mother-in-law into the microphone, utterly ignoring me. My toast in response left the entire room speechless.
You know how these things go. My mother-in-laws milestone 60th birthday was loominga serious affair demanding grand celebration. And who, in our family, is the chief organiser, the driving force, the so-called eternal engine? Correctme.
Agnes Margaretlets call her thatapproached me with her most innocent look. *”Darling, youre such a doer, so capable!”* And so it went: *”Help me with the party, wont you? Im just an old woman, out of touch with these things.”*
Ah, *”help.”* Ladies, her idea of “help” meant I handled absolutely everything. For two weeks, my life revolved around that party.
I booked the venue, revised the menu three times because *”Aunt Mabel doesnt eat shellfish, and Uncle Nigel is allergic to nuts.”* I secured the host, arranged the photographer, brainstormed decorations, and spent half the night inflating those ridiculous balloons.
The cherry on top? All this planning came out of *our* pocketbecause Agnes certainly wasnt footing the bill.
My husband, Edward, maintained the illusion of involvementtagging along, sitting through meetingsbut his phone absorbed all his attention. To every suggestion, hed nod blankly, eyes glued to the screen: *”Brilliant idea, love.”*
Meanwhile, Agnes phoned daily with *”helpful”* instructions, never once asking if *I* needed assistance. I swear, the stress alone shed me three pounds.
The big day arrived. The venue sparkled, guests looked splendid, and the birthday queen herself glided in wearing a new dress. Me? I hadnt even found time to fix my hair properly.
I dashed about like madsmoothing issues with waitstaff, locating lost children, calming a drunken Uncle Nigel. Not a guest, but the evenings unpaid manager.
Finally, mid-party, I slumped into a chair, desperate to taste the starter. Then the host announced: *”And now, a word from our beloved birthday lady!”*
Agnes, regal as ever, seized the mic. Foolishly, I thought: *Now shell thank me. Acknowledge the sleepless nights.*
She cast a queenly glance over the crowd. *”Darlings! Im overjoyed to see you all! And I must thank my dearest, my golden sonEdward, without you, this wouldnt have happened!”*
The fork slipped from my fingers. Applause erupted. Edward, flushed with pride, blew her a kiss. Not a wordnot a hintthat I existed. As if the party materialised by magic.
Something in me withered. Something else coiled, cold and sharp. The insult stole my breaththen fury took its place. And with it, a plan. Bold. Public.
I waited for silence, then strode to the host. *”Pardon me,”* I smiled sweetly. *”Id like a moment.”*
Unaware, he handed me the mic.
I faced the room. *”Dear guestsAgnes, darlingI echo your sentiments! Edward truly is the hero of this evening. So Ive a small gift for himand his marvellous mother.”*
From my purse, I produced the folderthe final bill, freshly collected from the manager.
Dead silence.
I laid it before them. *”Since you orchestrated this, its only fair you settle the bill. After all, true heroes take responsibility.”*
Edward turned ashen, gripping the tablecloth. Agnes gaped like a stranded fish.
The room held its breath.
I set the mic down, lifted my chin, and walked out. Rumor has it, the party ended rather abruptly.
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