Six months after losing my wife, Della, I was still struggling with my grief. An event I thought would be a distraction—the 45th wedding anniversary of Della and her sister Lina’s parents—ended up being a painful reminder of the wounds that never seemed to heal.
As I nursed a drink and tried to blend into the background of the celebration, Lina appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing Della’s engagement dress. It was a soft blue gown that Della had cherished for years. Seeing Lina in it felt like a deep betrayal.
I tried to hold back my anger, but Lina, with her smug smile, seemed to revel in my discomfort. “Jack!” she called out with feigned sweetness. “Don’t you think this dress is perfect for the occasion?”
My heart pounded. “That’s Della’s dress,” I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper.
A woman descending a staircase | Source: Midjourney
Lina laughed, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, come on. It’s not like she needs it anymore. And now,” she leaned in, her breath hot on my ear, “she can’t say no to me.”
Before I could respond, Lina “accidentally” spilled red wine all over the dress. Her mock apology only added to my simmering rage.
I managed to get through the rest of the party, but the drive home was a blur of anger and hurt. In the quiet of our empty house, I found some solace in the thought that karma would eventually balance the scales.
Days later, as I scrolled through social media, a post from Lina caught my eye. She claimed to have been robbed of her designer clothes. I felt a twisted sense of satisfaction when I received a call from her, accusing me of orchestrating the theft.
I answered, trying to suppress my amusement. “Lina, I’ve been home grieving. How could I have stolen your clothes?”
Her accusations continued, but I couldn’t help laughing when I saw photos of her missing outfits on homeless people in the street. It seemed the universe had a sense of humor.
“Trust me, karma works in mysterious ways,” I told her before ending the call. I felt a strange sense of relief, as if some of the weight of Della’s loss had been lifted.
The next morning, I found a plain envelope on my doorstep. Inside was a note that read, “Don’t thank me.” It was clear someone else had taken action to right the wrongs, adding a final touch of poetic justice.
I smiled, raising an imaginary glass to Della. “You always knew how to handle it,” I murmured, feeling a small sense of closure.
