The invitation came on a Tuesday while Liam and I were doing dishes. “Mom wants us to come to Sage Hill this weekend,” he said, already having agreed. Betty and Arnold greeted us like royalty—or at least, they greeted Liam that way. She hugged me lightly, like stamping a letter she didn’t want to send. Dinner was all about Liam, every story circling back to him. Later, she showed photos: Liam as a boy, Liam at prom with Alice—her voice soft and warm when she said Alice’s name.
That night, I caught Betty in the kitchen, burning our wedding photos by candlelight, whispering words I didn’t understand. When I dragged Liam down, the evidence was gone. He chalked it up to a dream. The next day I searched her room. Dolls with pins, my photo taped to their heads, burned pictures, a notebook of spells. I took photos. At dinner, I confronted her. Liam saw the drawer himself.
“You were supposed to marry Alice,” she said calmly. “I was protecting you.” We locked our door that night. At dawn, I uploaded everything to her church and neighbors. By evening, Betty’s phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Liam carried our bags out.
In the car, he took my hand. “I’m sorry. Thank you for fighting.” Sometimes the only spell you need is daylight.
