Chapter 2 - The Video She Wanted Everyone to See
I have never trusted a person who enjoys being photographed while pretending not to know a camera is there.
Tiffany had always been one of those people.
She could enter a room with a dozen strangers and somehow find the one angle that made her look like the most important person in it.
But wanting to be photographed was one thing.
Planning to be humiliated was another.
I sat at my kitchen table with Denise's phone between us.
Bernice stood at the sink, washing frosting from a serving knife that had never touched the cake.
"Read it again," I said.
Denise turned the screen toward me.
Three days before my birthday, Tiffany had sent her the photograph.
Make sure you record the old woman.
Beneath that, a second message.
I want every second when she finally loses it.
I felt something cold settle in my stomach.
"Why didn't you show me this?"
Denise's eyes filled.
"Because I thought she was joking."
"About what?"
"About you getting upset."
I leaned back.
"Denise."
"I know."
"No, sweetheart. Tell me exactly what she said."
Denise took a breath.
"She called me Wednesday evening."
"Before sending the photograph?"
"About ten minutes before."
"What did she want?"
"She asked whether I was coming to your party."
"She knew you were."
"That's what I said."
Denise rubbed her forehead.
"Then she asked if I still made those little family videos."
I thought about the phone she had carried around my living room.
"Go on."
"She said she wanted a nice birthday memory for Marcus."
I waited.
"And then?"
Denise lowered her eyes.
"She said you were getting more difficult lately."
Bernice stopped washing the knife.
"More difficult how?"
"Forgetful. Suspicious. Angry."
I stared at my niece.
Denise rushed on.
"I didn't believe her."
"Did you tell her that?"
"Yes."
"What did she say?"
"She laughed and told me I'd understand when I got older."
I folded my hands.
For eleven years, I had watched Tiffany make small statements about me that could pass for concern.
Mama O doesn't like strangers touching her things.
Mama O gets confused about online banking.
Mama O is stubborn about accepting help.
Every statement contained just enough truth to be difficult to challenge.
I did not like strangers touching my belongings.
I had once asked Marcus to explain a banking app.
And I had been stubborn since 1956.
But stubborn was not the same as incompetent.
Suspicious was not the same as confused.
And anger, when warranted, was not proof that a woman's mind had begun to fail.
"Denise," I said, "did she mention my house?"
My niece blinked.
"What?"
"My house. Did Tiffany say anything about it?"
She hesitated.
"She asked whether you still lived here alone."
Bernice turned around.
"That woman knows Olivia lives alone."
"I know," Denise whispered.
"Then why ask?" Bernice demanded.
I looked toward the kitchen doorway.
Beyond it, my living room was still decorated with crooked balloons.
Marcus had hung them while I stood on the floor giving instructions.
He had laughed when I told him to move the golden number seven a little to the left.
"Mom," he'd said, "nobody is going to measure the balloons."
"I will."
He'd kissed my forehead.
And for a moment, I'd felt like the center of his world again.
Now I wondered how long that moment had lasted.
"Send me screenshots," I told Denise.
"All of them?"
"Everything."
She nodded.
"And don't delete the originals."
"I won't."
Bernice dried her hands.
"What are you thinking, Olivia?"
I looked at her.
"I'm thinking I've spent eleven years treating Tiffany like an unpleasant dinner guest."
"And?"
"Maybe I should have been treating her like someone who was studying the house."
Neither woman answered.
That silence frightened me.
Not because I thought they disagreed.
Because I suspected they were thinking the same thing.
At nine the next morning, my phone rang.
Marcus.
I let it ring three times before answering.
"Good morning, son."
"Mom."
His voice sounded exhausted.
"How are you?"
I glanced at the frosting stain still visible on my dining room rug.
"Seventy."
"Please don't joke."
"Then ask me a serious question."
He sighed.
"Tiffany's lawyer wants to talk."
"About the slap?"
"About everything."
I waited.
"She's really upset."
"I imagine she is."
"Mom."
"Marcus."
"You humiliated her."
I stared at the wall.
There are sentences that reveal exactly where a person's loyalty rests.
That was one.
"Marcus, your wife called me a loser on my seventieth birthday."
"I know."
"She knocked down a cake I paid three hundred and sixty dollars for."
"She says it was an accident."
"Then she ought to be more careful around furniture."
He said nothing.
"Son, did you watch Denise's video?"
"Yes."
"All of it?"
"Yes."
"Then tell me what you saw."
He exhaled.
"I saw my wife act badly."
"And?"
"I saw you hit her."
"Good. We're both capable of observation."
"Mom, this isn't helping."
I closed my eyes.
"Marcus, what exactly does Tiffany's lawyer want?"
A pause.
"She wants an apology."
"She can have one for the slap."
"And compensation."
"She can send me a reasonable, itemized demand."
Another pause.
"And she thinks you should get some help."
My eyes opened.
"What kind of help?"
"Counseling, maybe."
"Why?"
"Because what happened wasn't normal."
"Neither was what she did."
"Mom, I'm trying to keep this from getting worse."
"By telling me I need counseling?"
"That isn't fair."
I looked at the family photograph hanging near my refrigerator.
Marcus at twelve, his front teeth too large for his face, grinning beside his father.
My husband, Samuel, had been dead for eight years.
I wondered what he would have said.
Probably something quiet.
Samuel had never wasted a loud word when a soft one could make somebody ashamed.
"Marcus," I said, "has Tiffany ever told you she thinks I'm losing my mind?"
He did not answer immediately.
That was answer enough.
"Son?"
"She's worried about you."
"Since when?"
"Mom."
"Since when, Marcus?"
"Since you accused her of taking money from your purse last Christmas."
I felt my throat tighten.
That incident had bothered me more than I admitted.
Three hundred dollars had disappeared from my handbag during Christmas dinner.
Tiffany had been the only guest who went into my bedroom.
When I asked whether she'd seen the envelope, she called me paranoid.
Marcus had told me I'd probably misplaced it.
The money was never found.
"She didn't just start worrying yesterday," he continued.
"Apparently not."
"Maybe you should consider talking to someone."
I studied the little scratch on my kitchen table where Marcus had once carved his initials.
Then I said, "Before we discuss my mental health, I'd like to ask one question."
"Okay."
"Why did Tiffany tell Denise to record me losing my temper three days before the party?"
The silence was immediate.
Not confused.
Not surprised.
Immediate.
"Marcus?"
"Where did you hear that?"
"From Denise."
"Mom, you need to be careful about taking things out of context."
I sat upright.
"Did you know?"
"That's not what I said."
"Did you know your wife was planning to provoke me?"
His breathing changed.
"I have to go."
"Marcus."
"I'm at work."
"Answer the question."
"I'll call you later."
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone.
Then I called Bernice.
"Do you still know that lawyer who helped with your sister's estate?"
"Caroline Price?"
"Yes."
"Of course."
"I need her number."
Bernice did not ask why.
That is one reason we've been friends for fifty-four years.
Twenty minutes later, I had an appointment.
That afternoon, Denise called again.
Her voice was different.
Tight.
"Did you send the video to anybody?" I asked.
"No."
"Good."
"Aunt Olivia, somebody posted one online."
I gripped the phone.
"What?"
"It's everywhere."
"Who's somebody?"
"I don't know. It's on Tiffany's account."
I opened the link Denise sent.
The video began with me walking toward Tiffany.
There was no cake falling.
No insult.
No recording of Tiffany smiling.
Only an elderly Black woman crossing her living room, striking a younger woman, and pressing cake into her face.
The caption read:
My seventy-year-old mother-in-law attacked me at her birthday party because I accidentally bumped into a table. I've endured years of emotional abuse from this woman. Please pray for my family.
The video already had more than forty thousand views.
I sat perfectly still.
Then my phone vibrated again.
A message from an unknown number.
You should have listened when Tiffany told you to enjoy your house.
I looked toward my front window.
A dark sedan was parked across the street.
May you like
It had been there for nearly an hour.
And someone inside was watching my front door.
