I should have ignored it.
But curiosity and pettiness are cousins, and I happen to be close with both.
So there I was, walking into Lydia's overly decorated suburban living room.
Balloons everywhere.
Fake laughter bouncing off the walls.
And the guest of dishonor standing in the middle, clutching a wine glass like she'd earned it.
Belinda froze when she saw me.
The air went tight enough to file taxes on.
"Ol," she said, forcing a smile. "Didn't think you'd show."
"Oh, I wouldn't miss this," I said. "I brought a gift, too."
Her mom tried to play peacemaker.
"Let's all be adults tonight."
"Absolutely," I said. "Adults love transparency."
People started whispering.
Lydia's husband whispered, "This will be good."
I pretended not to hear.
Belinda, meanwhile, was doing that nervous laugh thing like if she laughed hard enough, she could make reality leave the room.
"What gift could you possibly have for me?" she asked.
I held up my phone, connected it to the Bluetooth speaker, and smiled.
"Audio memories."
The first few seconds were harmless.
Ambient noise.
Clinking glasses.
Then her voice came on, clear as crystal.
"You taste better than my husband's cooking."
Boom.
Instant silence.
Someone dropped a fork.
Her mom gasped like she'd just witnessed a ghost.
Her boss's wife, yes, the boss's wife, was standing right there, frozen mid-sip.
You could feel the shock ripple through the room like an electrical surge.
"Turn that off!" Belinda screamed, lunging toward me.
But I stepped back, calm as a yoga instructor.
"Oh, come on," I said. "You said it publicly. I'm just helping you own it."
Her boss's wife threw her wine in her husband's face.
The guy choked, sputtered, and yelled, "It wasn't what it sounded like!"
Which made everyone laugh because, well, it sounded exactly like what it was.
Belinda's mother fainted into the cake.
Lydia yelled, "Not on the buttercream!"
Because priorities.
The whole place erupted in chaos.
Screaming.
Crying.
Arguing.
And I just stood there sipping my soda like it was a fine vintage.
I leaned toward the nearest waiter and said, "Add that to my bill, please. Entertainment fee."
Then I turned, smiled at the mess I didn't have to clean up anymore, and walked out.
Outside, the night air felt good.
Light.
Free.
Earned.
I slid into my car, rolled down the window, and whispered, "Happy birthday, Belinda. Some gifts just keep giving."
It's funny how quiet can sound different after a storm.
For months, silence used to feel heavy.
Like waiting for a fight to start.
Now, it's peace with good acoustics.
The only thing breaking most mornings is Milo's tail thumping against the floor, demanding breakfast like rent's due.