“What I really am?” I asked.
Her eyes flicked toward Ethan and his parents. “Selfish. Ungrateful. Cold.”
“Stop,” I said.
She didn’t. Louder this time: “Natalie, don’t make this difficult. Just help your sister.”
Nearby conversations slowed. People were beginning to listen.
I felt the old pressure building—the guilt that had always made me give in.
Not this time.
“No,” I said clearly. “I’m done.”
For a split second, she looked stunned. Then her hand came out of nowhere and struck my face.
The crack echoed through the room.
Gasps spread through the crowd. Ethan stepped forward, fury flashing across his face.
I touched my cheek, stunned, and looked at her. She stood there breathing heavily, as if she had just corrected me.
That’s when I straightened and said, loud enough for everyone to hear:
“Now it’s your turn to lose everything.”
Her eyes widened—and she slapped me again.
Harder.
But this time I didn’t flinch.
Because she had no idea what I’d already done that morning.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t fight back. I simply walked away.
Ethan followed immediately, his hand steady at my elbow. “Are you okay?” he asked, barely holding back his anger.
I nodded once. My cheek throbbed.
Behind us, the party awkwardly tried to continue, guests pretending they hadn’t just watched a mother strike her daughter.
Chloe hurried over first. “Oh my God, Mom, what did you do?” she said, though her eyes stayed fixed on me, calculating.
My mother followed, chin raised. “She’s being dramatic,” she told the small group forming around us. “Natalie always turns everything into a scene.”
Ethan’s mother stepped forward. “Patricia, you just hit her. Twice.”
“She needed perspective,” my mom replied dismissively.
I gripped Ethan’s sleeve before he could explode. I didn’t want him fighting this battle. I wanted to finish it myself.
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