Vanessa stood there in a red dress, holding a bottle of wine, and she looked nervous instead of smug. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered before I could speak. “He told me you were completely fine with this.” Behind me, twenty-five guests leaned closer without making a sound. My husband pushed forward, his jaw tight, and said loudly, “See? Everyone is being mature tonight.”

I stepped aside and smiled. “Come in, Vanessa. I’m actually glad you came, because there is something I want you both to see.” I walked to the television he had mounted last month, picked up the remote, and pressed play. The first screenshot appeared in huge letters. My husband’s face went white, and the bottle in Vanessa’s hand began to tremble as she read the message out loud.