By the time the last dish was stacked and the lights dimmed, the dress felt like an intruder in my home. I laid it on the table, slid the scissors in, and cut carefully along the seam. What fell out was not an accident: a tiny device, deliberately placed, its cold purpose undeniable. I photographed everything—the stitching, the tag, the timestamp on my phone—building a quiet case while the house slept.
Their messages multiplied overnight, each one framed as loving curiosity. I answered with delays and half-truths, buying time, choosing caution over the comfort of pretending. When my mother finally stood on my porch, her eyes searching mine for confirmation or complicity, I refused to play either role. I didn’t accuse her; I simply shut the door on secrecy. That night, telling Emma that my love meant no hidden corners, I realized trust isn’t inherited—it’s chosen, protected, and, when necessary, rebuilt without the people who refuse to honor it.
