Face-Slapping11 min read
My Birthday Dress, Their Lies
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"I married him because my parents rushed me," I said once to myself when the ring was still new on my finger.
"He was calm, polite, and precise. Gabriel Jensen said all the right things. We dated for less than three months. We signed. We promised."
"He didn't seem like the sort who loved drama," I whispered, turning the thin band with my thumb.
"He was wrong in ways I couldn't see at first."
The first sign came the day after our wedding.
"I tried for half an hour," I told him, breathless with the hope that had lived inside me for weeks. "Gabriel, please—"
"Sorry, Constance," he said. "I'm leading a team on new software. The pressure's been heavy. Maybe another time?"
He sounded gentle. His hands pushed me away with the same flat touch they used on a door handle.
"I thought, 'Okay. He must be tired—new job—new life,'" I said, voice small. "We had been married only a day. He'd been... different on the wedding night. Passionate."
"When I opened the box he had left on my birthday, I thought he'd finally shown he cared."
"It was midnight. The door clicked. I was in the cat-ear outfit I'd chosen out of nervous hope."
"You bought these for me?" I asked, heart jumping.
"Who told you to open my delivery!?" he cut across me like a slash.
He was angry not at what the box meant, but that I had touched his things.
"It was for you—" I laughed, false and thin.
"That wasn't for you," he said. "It was probably a prank from my old friend—Evie. I'll return it."
"Evie?" I had never met her. "Who's Evie?"
"Evie is my childhood friend. A troublemaker. I told you about him—her—don't you remember?" He looked away as if the subject embarrassed him.
I felt suddenly foolish. "You never call me 'wife' though," I muttered. "You never did right."
"I had been making excuses," I confess. "I told myself he was busy, that I had to be patient. I started dieting, working out, thinking maybe I could earn his attention."
"The box stayed in the closet for weeks."
Then other things happened. A pattern. The silence. The cold replies to my messages. Photos I sent—saved in his phone—only short replies. Once, on his company's late-night celebration, I went to pick him up because colleagues said he was drunk.
"You came," he said when I reached him slumped on the curb. "My wife saved me again."
He kissed me like a man who had finally remembered a language. For a brief, shining hour I believed he might change.
"Later that night he called me 'wife' for the first time," I told my own reflection. "I believed it."
"Pregnant," I decided when a small blue double line showed on the pregnancy stick.
"He smiled the morning I told him."
"He guarded me. He cooked. He hired people to help. He even told his friend to drive me when he couldn't."
But the month after our son was born, the world shifted into a revelation.
"It was at the son's full-month banquet," I remember dropping my fork, though I had to steady my hand against a table. "So many faces. So many congratulations."
"I carried my boy into a private room to be thanked. Then I heard voices—voices behind the curtain. Loud, reckless."
"I thought I was hearing things."
"Constance, what's up?" Gabriel said when he finally walked out—composed, as if nothing mattered. "Give me the baby, rest."
"Where were you?" I asked. "Where did you go for so long? Everyone was asking."
He laughed once, low and strange. "Evie asked about a name today."
"Evie? Where are they? Why are you smiling like that?"
"Gabriel, who is Evie to you?" I pressed, feeling a new cold bloom in my chest.
"Evie? My Evie?" He lied, eyes careless.
Then a small sound from the other room knocked me like a stone. A muffled laugh. A voice not husky, not male. A voice that lit a fuse I had waited years to find.
"Gabriel, what name?" Evie's voice asked—soft, almost musical.
"Gabriel will be Gabriel Jr.," Gabriel said. "He is both mine and Evie's."
Those words unhooked me from the world for a long moment.
"You want our son to be 'both' of you?" I heard myself say.
"He looked toward the curtained door. He called her 'wife' in that drunk, slurred way the night he told me he loved me—only it wasn't me in his mouth. His drunken lips named Evie the one he loved."
"Everything that had been odd fell into place," I said. "The months of silence, the odd shipments, the messages I saw him send late at night that were nothing but bank transfers."
"I had suspected alone, tilting my head against the doubt until it broke. I did what many of us do when we think our love has been hoaxed—"
"I checked his phone."
"It was clean. Work messages, my photos—every single one carefully saved. No open chat lines. No names I could find."
"But I kept looking."
"I found bank transfers. Big ones to Evie. Three hundred thousand in the year."
I did not scream then. I only listened when a voice from the other room said, "He can't hide this forever."
"I found a delivery box one night at Evie's place," I said. "Inside, the same lingerie set that had been delivered to our house—the same little cat ears—wrapped with their photos. So those gifts he'd claimed 'a prank' about turned out to be his gifts to her."
"It is ridiculous to think of betrayal and not act," I thought. So I moved quietly, like a woman who had learned how to keep a secret and how to use it.
"I took the USB sticks," I said. "Six of them in a locked case with a four-digit code. I knew his birthday. It was the key."
"They were worse than photos," I told Barrett when he copied them for me in the hospital bathroom. "Videos. Messages. Bank transfers to Evie. He had arranged our wedding like a set, like a stage."
"Barrett didn't ask questions. He was a doctor, not a judge. He was kind and immediate. 'Give me the sticks,' he said. 'I'll make copies now.'"
"Why did I keep calm in front of them at first?" I asked no one. "Because the biggest weapon in a liar's house is unpredictability. I was patient. I collected proof."
Months of small acts followed.
"I feigned ignorance when he left and didn't sleep at home," I told the walls. "I staged small scenes to make him more careless. I hired Broderick to be a fake admirer for Evie. Broderick—smooth, confident, convinced he was doing the right thing for money—arranged an encounter."
"It had to be staged to force cracks to open."
At first, everything moved as if I were watching a slow film.
"I called the police when Gabriel had vanished for three days," I said, the memory sharp. "Report of missing person. It was a plausible step. People do not usually vanish with a newborn."
"Then I went to Evie's apartment with Broderick and a couple of friends."
"We found Evie tied to a chair. Her mouth swollen. Props around her like a grotesque set."
"Two things happened then. Gabriel burst in, dragging a shopping bag. He saw us. He hurled himself toward the camera, trying to destroy what we had filmed."
"People shouted. Broderick and his friends moved fast. The police came. The scene was ugly, messy, and packed."
After that night, the net pulled tighter.
"I published an essay. I sent it to news pages and bigger social feeds. I wrote the truth with photographs and clips masked where needed."
"People have a hunger for simple moral lines," I said. "At first the comments were cruel. People sided with a sobbing, mature mother who cried at the camera, and with a respectable family that also showed their sorrow."
"Gabriel and his mother performed a little piece of misery for cameras. Tears and rage. The public loved it. Many believed them—at first."
"I learned early the difference between truth and popularity. Truth has weight. Popularity has wings."
"I sued," I said. "Domestic violence. Fraud. Coercion. Claim of marital property stolen. I made sure the proof was clear."
"The court hearings were a cyclone. Gabriel's mother—Diana Marchetti—told reporters in the hospital corridor that I was ungrateful. I went quiet. I let the evidence speak."
Then came the most public stage—my punishment scene for the conspirators. I had waited for a bright place, a time when the family would be surrounded by relatives, when they would have their pride well set out on the table, when there would be cameras and neighbors and a priest who had once blessed them.
"We set the banquet," I said. "I told the venue manager a false story: I was making a speech about family resilience. The hall filled. Faces arranged themselves into neat rows. The Jensen family came with their heads high. Diana was there, draped in silk and practiced sorrow."
"When the food was served, Gabriel stood to toast," I said. "He had no clue the phone on the podium was streaming what I had arranged."
"My voice over the speakers was calm when I walked to the mic."
"Gabriel, Evie, Diana," I said into the mic. "Thank you for coming. There is a truth I must share."
"Gasps began like a summer storm. The youngest cousins looked confused. Aunts covered mouths. The room grew thin."
"I played a short video. Gabriel in a park, holding a tiny wrapped box. He says, 'This is for Evie. She will be my world.' Then myself on his phone, a saved photo, HDR: me in a cat-ear outfit I had been too embarrassed to wear. Next, Evie and Gabriel, in their bed, laughing."
"The audio in my hands was merciless. The banquet was full of the Jensen family friends—neighbors, colleagues—people who had congratulated us on a 'good match' less than a year before."
"At first, Gabriel smiled the smile of a man who is almost certain his performance can stop any leak."
"Then the room changed."
"A voice from the head table whispered, 'What is this?' Someone reached out, clutched the arm of a chair."
"Diana's face drained of color. She pushed back her hair. Her lips moved without sound."
"Gabriel went white. He tried to laugh it off. 'This is a mistake,' he said. 'These are... for performance reasons.'"
"I lifted the next video. It was longer. Evie on the couch, counting money. Gabriel's transfers listed, month after month."
"That was when a first wave of movement hit the hall. Phones came out. A cousin recorded with a shaky hand. 'He paid for her apartment, look,' someone said."
"Gabriel's eyes were no longer playful. 'Constance, you—' he began."
"I cut him off. 'You married me to give them a child,' I said just loud enough. 'You used me as a womb. You planned to kick me out after our son was weaned. You signed our marriage like a contract with a clause where you were allowed an emotional life elsewhere.'"
"A silence like an ocean fell. Someone laughed then coughed. Evie moved in her chair as if waking."
"She stood up. 'Connie, please—' she began. 'I didn't mean—'"
"Those words were the first turn."
"Diana's response came after. 'You think we are monsters?' she demanded, turning her back to the crowd. 'We wanted a grandchild! Constance, you should be grateful—'"
"Grateful? Grateful? I thought."
"Voices lifted. An aunt started to weep. A neighbor spat the word 'shame.'"
"Then the crescendo: I played the clinching proof. The password list. The bank statements. The messages where they planned the timing of intimacy, scheduled days to ensure conception. Gabriel's recorded confession: 'Once she is pregnant, I will take care of the paperwork. We'll give Constance a house. She won't be our problem.'"
"Somebody from the back began to clap. A single hand at first, then two, then ten. It was a mocking applause—an animal call for justice."
"Gabriel's mouth worked. He was a puppet whose strings had been found by the crowd. He tried to explain, tried to say there were reasons. 'We loved each other,' he stammered. 'I thought... I'm sorry.'"
"Evie's face resembled someone who had been seen without a costume. She turned to Diana, pleading, but people had already stood."
"A man I had never met before stepped forward and threw his glass down. 'You stole from a woman who trusted you. You used a child as a tool.'"
"Child's name matters less when you look at the child, asleep in the arms of a woman who had been betrayed."
"Diana made a final stand. 'You will regret this!' she cried. But regret was already a stretch—people wanted consequence."
"The crowd's reaction shifted from gossip to action. A local reporter appeared with a microphone. Someone called the law."
"That day the banquet guests became jury, executioner, and chronicler all at once. The band played on at the edges, but it sounded thin and ridiculous."
"After the videos, the comments came. A woman at the next table stood and said, 'You took advantage of my friend's generosity once. Shame on you.'"
"Another man announced, 'We will boycott any business ties the Jensen family has. No favors.'"
"The worst for them was seeing faces change. Old allies who had smiled and nodded now pointed. Children looked with open confusion at adults shouting. The mother who had reasoned felt small. The men who had once laughed at my birth control methods now had to cover their mouths."
"Evie crumpled. She begged. 'Constance, I never wanted to—'"
"You want the full truth?" I asked the crowd. "He called her his wife in bed. He told her his whole life."
"Gabriel's reaction changed like weather. At first he was smug. Then shocked. Then denying. Then he was small and clumsy. Then he attacked."
"'You will not—' he said, but his voice was tiny."
"People around us recorded. Some called friends. Some volunteered to testify. His mother screamed that I was a schemer."
"But the tide had turned."
"By the time the police escorted Evie away for questioning, the hall was a buzz of lit-up phones and mutters. People photographed Diana's face as she realized the depth of what the world would now say."
"That public scene fed the court. It filled the internet. Within days he lost his job. Within weeks the bank records and the videos were entered into court. The judge read the evidence and asked questions no one could answer for them."
"Gabriel's collapse after the banquet was not quick. He tried anger, then bargaining. 'I can make you comfortable again,' he said in a courtroom vestibule. 'Take the house. Take everything but our son.'"
"I had counsel. Jayce Schumacher, a quiet lawyer with a steady gaze, said, 'Don't take his offers seriously. The court cares for the child's best interest.'"
"We fought in the open. They fought to protect their face. We fought with proof."
"The final hearing was brutal. Diana broke into tears on camera. She claimed she had wanted a secure future. 'We only wanted a grandchild,' she said. 'We didn't think—'"
"Her words did not excuse planning deception. Her son did not have an answer for the photos. Evie did not have a defense for the messages."
"When the judge delivered the ruling, it split the air. The house and custody were given to me. Gabriel was ordered to pay support monthly until the child reached adulthood. Diana's attempts to keep the property failed because legal documentation showed the house was jointly purchased with my family contribution."
"After the judgment, there was social unmasking. People who had cheered them now posted apologies to strangers. The Jensen name was bruised."
"Evie and Diana suffered different fates. Evie slipped away from our city like a shadow. She had been socially exposed and the town had no room for her. Diana retreated, angry and ashamed. Gabriel was fired, mocked, and watched."
"I watched all of this and felt something I did not expect."
"It was relief glazed with aching. I had lost trust, and gained a future. I had been tricked, and then I had made them pay in a way that made sense: truth."
"The punishment had been public, as they had plotted public lives. They shifted from smug to shocked to pleading to broken."
"I did not enjoy bloodletting. But there was satisfaction in seeing the lies unearthed, in the banquets filled with shame where once there had been celebration."
"After the court, I sold the house. I kept our son. I bought a small apartment near my office. My parents moved in. Barrett kept visiting. Jayce helped secure the terms."
"Barrett, the doctor who had copied the files for me quietly, came often. 'You did the right thing,' he said, one evening, sliding a bowl of soup across my kitchen table."
"'Do you think I can be happy again?' I asked him."
"He smiled with that tired kindness of his. 'You are already surviving. Let the rest come later.'"
"I sometimes think about the details that broke them—the bank transfers, the hidden photos, the recorded messages. I think about Evie's gasp when she saw herself on a screen. I think about Diana's face when her son could not deny the evidence."
"Justice for me was not revenge as the tabloids wrote. It was a reclamation. It was small: a seat at the council; my son's name on the birth certificate; a little apartment with curtains I chose."
"I don't know if Barrett will be my future. Sometimes we dine, sometimes he sits across the living room and reads to my son. I see something like quiet affection."
"I write this not to boast, but to record the truth. There is life after betrayal."
"My ending is specific. It contains a little yellow USB case I keep in my desk drawer. It smells faintly like printer ink. I wind my son's blanket around his sleeping fist, hear his tiny breath, and remind myself that I will not let anyone reduce him to a tool."
"When I close the drawer on that USB, a small click sounds like a small vow."
The End
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