The night was meant to celebrate my sister Emma’s 40th, but her husband, Graham, ruined it. He threw soda in my face, not just out of anger, but fear.
The house buzzed with conversation, the scent of dinner in the air. Emma looked stunning, but Graham barely acknowledged anyone, lost in his phone. When Emma whispered to him, he barely reacted.
During dessert, I asked Graham to toast to Emma, but he snapped, threw soda at me, and yelled, “None of your business! You’re still single because you stick your nose where it doesn’t belong!” Then he stormed out.
The room fell silent. Emma pulled me to the restroom, apologizing. I knew something wasn’t right with Graham. I showed her a photo of him kissing another woman, confirming my suspicions. Emma was hurt, but she wasn’t blind to the signs.
“I felt it,” she whispered. “I just didn’t want to see it.”
I told her I confronted Graham, warning him to tell her the truth, or I would. She asked, “What did he say?”