That night, I hosted a small birthday dinner at my place.
Family gathered. Wine flowed. Laughter—mostly at Peter’s stories—filled the room.
At some point, Nick disappeared.
A few minutes later, I heard it.
A crash. Metal against something solid.
My stomach dropped.
I ran outside.
My brand-new SUV sat crooked against Mrs. Halpern’s mailbox, the wooden post splintered in half.
Nick came strolling back inside moments later, cake on his plate, frosting on his lip.
“What happened?” I demanded.
He shrugged. “No idea.”
Peter chimed in immediately. “Betty, relax. Maybe you forgot to put it in park?”
My parents nodded along. Even Sara—Nick’s mother—tilted her head sympathetically.
“Maybe you’ve had too much wine.”
I stood there, staring at them, realizing something wasn’t just wrong with the car.
It was wrong with them.
I told everyone to leave.
