Henry shot me a glare. ""I get it—you've been holding a grudge ever since I married Betty and, well, the whole 'got her pregnant behind your back' thing. Yeah, I should've told you sooner.""

""But that doesn't mean you can hurt her,"" he continued. ""She's been through so much. All she wanted was to be a mom. Is that really so wrong? Why does she have to deal with your anger too?""

Then he pointed at me. ""You owe her an apology. Today.""

I could feel my whole body shaking, but I forced myself to stay calm. My voice came out rough. ""What did I do wrong? Tell me. What exactly did I do wrong?""

That threw him. He just stood there, totally caught off guard by the redness in my eyes.

And then, cue Betty with her soft, tragic sigh. ""It's fine, Henry. Forget it. Even though I almost died just now...

""I don't blame Daphne. I don't need her apology. You two are getting married soon, and I don't want to cause any drama.""

Henry sighed and looked at her with tenderness. ""Betty, your selflessness... it's heartbreaking sometimes.""

Then he whipped his laser glare back at me. ""The truth is, you're just jealous of Betty. You can't stand seeing her happier than you.

""But since she spoke up for you, I'll let it go this time. If you ever hurt her again, though, I won't forgive you.""

He scooped her up, pausing to hit me with one last soul-crushing glance. ""You'll never measure up to Betty.""

Mic drop.

The room went dead silent.

I just stood there, staring out the window, watching leaves spiral to the ground like my last shred of dignity. And then it hit me.

This was it.

I crouched down, covered my face, and finally let it all out.

For the last time.

Because this was the last time I was crying over Henry freaking Siebert.

***

That afternoon, Henry went full social media king with a nine-picture post.

Every shot? Corners of the house we were supposed to share after the wedding.

The caption read:

[Every room, every piece of furniture, every decoration—I chose them all myself, to give my baby a warm and happy home.]

Cue the peanut gallery in the comments:

[Congrats, Henry! Wishing you a healthy baby!]

[So you and Daphne are having a baby before the wedding? Congrats!]

[Your future wife is so lucky to have a husband like you. Jealous!]

[Canceling all my billion-dollar deals to make sure I'm at the wedding in three months!]

Then Betty swooped in:

[Everyone, please don't misunderstand. This isn't Henry's wedding house—it's mine.]

And just like that, the comment section flatlined.

Breaking the awkward silence, I dropped my own mic:

[This third-wheel game isn't for me. I'm out. Best wishes to you both.]

No waiting for likes or angry replies—I deleted Henry and Betty faster than a bad selfie.

A few minutes later, Henry called.

""Daphne, haven't you had enough?"" he practically screamed.

I stayed chill. ""I'm not making a scene.""

""Oh, really?"" he snapped. ""What you said on my post—that wasn't a scene? Just trying to smear Betty, huh? Do you really need to paint her as the other woman to feel better? If you keep slandering her, then we won't get married!""

Honestly, I felt nothing. His words hit like a wet noodle. My heart? Totally dead sea levels of calm.

""Henry,"" I said, steady as a rock, ""what makes you think I'd want someone else's leftovers?""

I hung up.

Apparently, 'leftovers' hit a nerve, because Henry wouldn't stop calling. When I didn't answer, he switched to spamming me with texts.

I ignored all of them.

In ten days, I'd be marrying Ray, and Henry, Betty, and the whole circus would be nothing but a bad memory.

I was planning to ride out those last days in peace, detached and unbothered, but no—Betty just had to bring the drama.

She shattered my dad's urn.

The ashes spilled everywhere, but it wasn't enough for her. Nope. Her cat strutted in, did its business right on the remains, and Betty? She had the audacity to grin.

""Daphne, look! The ashes make great litter for my cat!""

And just like that, all the grief, the rage, everything I'd been holding back exploded.

I just grabbed the baseball bat behind the door and swung.

The crack of impact was satisfying, but Betty's scream? Even better. She stumbled back, pale as a ghost, scrambling to get away.

My mom rushed in. ""Daphne! Are you insane? How dare you hit your sister!""

And, of course, Betty switched into full victim mode, clutching Mom like a shield, her face all wide-eyed terror.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she whimpered, ""Mom, I'm so scared. Daphne wants to kill me!""

My mom threw herself in front of Betty like a mother hen guarding her precious chick, her voice sharp and cutting. ""You've always bullied your sister. I let it slide when it was just little fights, but this? This is too much!""

Seriously? She was my mom, yet she always took Betty's side—her foster daughter, not even related to us by blood.

There was no pain worse than this.

Tears blurred my vision as I choked out, ""She broke Dad's urn! That was Dad—my dad! Why? Why would she do that?""

I'd bent over backward trying to endure, to compromise, to keep the peace. And for what? So Betty could destroy the one thing Dad left me?

Why didn't my mom love me?