As the evening unfolded, I observed the interactions around me. There was laughter, clinking champagne glasses, and a palpable sense of celebration. The bride’s mother, dressed in an opulent gown, circulated the room, a commanding presence wherever she went. Her laughter was loud and infectious, drawing people toward her, but there was an undercurrent of something sharper, a haughtiness in the way she carried herself.

It wasn’t long before she approached my table. Her eyes flitted over me with a fleeting look of disdain, a silent judgement passed in an instant.

“And who might you be?” she asked, her voice dripping with condescension. I introduced myself, mentioning my connection to Maria and Carlos. Her eyes narrowed, and a smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Ah, the neighbor,” she said, dismissively.

The conversation might have ended there had it not been for an unfortunate turn of events. In an attempt to make small talk, I complimented the wedding arrangements. Perhaps it was the stress of the event or the presence of so many prestigious guests, but something I said must have touched a nerve. Without warning, she raised her hand and slapped me across the face. The room fell silent, all eyes turning toward us.