“Should I be worried?”
I smiled, genuinely this time.
“No. But she should be.”
On Wednesday morning, I called Harriet before I could change my mind.
Harriet, Mason’s cousin’s wife, was the only person in the family who had ever treated me like a real person instead of a placeholder.
“Harriet, I need honesty.”
“Samantha, whatever you’re about to ask, the answer is probably yes.”
I laughed nervously.
“Has Lori been saying things about me?”
“Honestly? She’s been telling everyone you’re a phase. That Cheryl is waiting patiently for Mason to come to his senses.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“And is she? Waiting?”
“That’s the strange part. I’ve watched Cheryl at those gatherings. She doesn’t act like a woman waiting for anyone. She seems to want to disappear.”
After we hung up, I sat with that for a while.
My original plan was simple: confront Lori at dinner, name every insult, and let her face the consequences.
That afternoon, when Mason came home from the store, I tested the waters.
“Mason, if something happened at your mom’s dinner, would you back me up?”
He set the grocery bag down slowly.
“Sam, please. Let’s not make a scene.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I just don’t want a blow-up. You know how she gets.”
“I know how she gets. That’s the problem.”
He rubbed the back of his neck and said nothing.
That was when I understood a shouting match would only give Lori the ending she had been writing for me for years: the unstable wife, the dramatic outsider, the phase.
So I scrapped that plan.
On Thursday evening, Harriet texted me. She said she had something I needed to see and asked if I was sure.
I replied, “Send it.”
Screenshots appeared—months of family group messages.
Lori had coordinated Cheryl’s “coincidental” arrivals like a wedding planner, mocked my Thanksgiving casserole, and told an aunt my Easter dress looked like a “hostess uniform.”
“Those messages were on Ted’s phone,” Harriet explained, referring to her husband.
I printed them. I needed the proof in my hands.
Then Harriet sent another set.
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