I still replay it, every single second. The delicate clinking of teacups, the nervous chatter of my bridesmaids, the artificial smiles plastered on everyone’s faces – especially hers. My soon-to-be mother-in-law. She sat across from me, radiating a quiet judgment that felt like a physical chill in the warm room. Our relationship had always been… strained. She found me too loud, too unrefined, not ‘good enough’ for her precious son. And I? I found her sanctimonious, controlling, and utterly insufferable.
So, for my bridal shower, I concocted a plan. A little dose of harmless chaos. A way to rattle her perfectly coiffed cage. I invited a fortune teller.
Not just any fortune teller, but one with a reputation for being a bit… dramatic. I pictured my MIL’s face, tight with disapproval, as this mystical woman wafted incense and spouted nonsense. It was going to be glorious. A small, petty victory before I officially joined her family. Just a bit of fun, I told myself. She deserves to be taken down a peg or two.
A smiling little boy wearing a navy suit | Source: Midjourney
The fortune teller arrived, a vibrant swirl of crimson velvet and jingling silver. She had eyes that seemed to see right through you, and a smile that was both ancient and mischievous. My bridesmaids loved it. The older relatives were a mix of polite interest and scandalized whispers. My MIL, as expected, looked like she’d smelled something rotten. Her lips were a thin, disapproving line. She clutched her elegant leather purse on her lap like a shield.
The readings began. Mostly light-hearted. Future travels, new careers, hints of babies. Everyone giggled, and I watched my MIL out of the corner of my eye, enjoying her barely contained exasperation. This was working perfectly.
Then, the fortune teller approached her. My MIL stiffened. “Oh, no thank you, dear,” she said, her voice dripping with condescension. “I don’t believe in such… theatrics.”
The fortune teller merely smiled, a knowing glint in her dark eyes. “Some truths are not about belief, but about what is,” she murmured, her voice suddenly deeper. “And your truth… it hums with a powerful, sorrowful energy.”
My MIL’s smile faltered. I felt a prickle of unease. This was getting a little too intense, even for my prank. The room had gone quiet.
“I sense a secret,” the fortune teller continued, her gaze fixed on my MIL’s face, then slowly drifting downwards. “A heavy secret. One that weighs on your soul, and on the very fabric of your family.” Her eyes landed on the purse. “It’s hidden close. Very close.”
My MIL’s face went white. Her grip on her purse tightened until her knuckles were stark. “That’s quite enough,” she hissed, her voice trembling. “This is absurd.”
A smiling wedding photographer | Source: Midjourney
But the fortune teller was relentless. “A truth denied, a life unlived in honesty. It affects everyone around you. Especially him.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of my fiancé’s picture, which sat on a nearby table. My breath caught in my throat. What was she doing?
“You carry it with you,” the fortune teller insisted, stepping closer, her voice barely a whisper, yet it filled the silent room. “A document. Proof. A shattering revelation.” She reached out a hand, not quite touching, but hovering over the expensive leather purse. “The truth you have tried to bury for so long, it yearns to be free.”
My MIL let out a small, choked gasp. Her composure had completely crumbled. Her eyes darted around the room, wild with panic. “NO!” she cried out, almost a scream. “STOP THIS! GET HER OUT!”
But it was too late. In her agitation, her hands shook violently. The purse, which she had clutched so tightly, slipped. It hit the floor with a soft thud, spilling its contents. Lipstick, keys, a compact. And a folded piece of paper. Just a standard white envelope, unsealed.
The fortune teller didn’t touch it. She didn’t need to. Her eyes, wide and knowing, rested on the envelope. “There it is,” she said softly, almost sadly. “The truth.”
My MIL was scrambling, practically on her hands and knees, trying to gather the scattered items, her face a mask of absolute terror. But I was closer. My eyes, and the eyes of several other guests, were fixed on that envelope. It had a clinical, official look. Not a love letter. Not a bill.
My curiosity, the last vestige of my prank, compelled me. I knelt down, pretending to help. My fingers brushed against the paper. I saw the heading. My heart stopped.
PATERNITY TEST RESULTS.
My vision blurred. No. It couldn’t be. I saw my fiancé’s name. And another man’s. And then, the words, clear as day, stark and unforgiving.
“Probability of Paternity: 0.00%.”
An older woman wearing a navy dress | Source: Midjourney
A cold dread seeped into my bones. My fiancé. My loving, wonderful fiancé. The man who had looked up to his father his entire life, who adored him. The man whose world was built on the foundation of his family.
I looked up. My MIL was staring at me, her eyes pleading, desperate, utterly broken. But it was too late. The truth, forced out by my petty, stupid prank, hung in the air, a physical weight.
My own wedding. My own bridal shower. And I had just shattered my fiancé’s entire existence. He wasn’t his father’s son. He had been lied to, his whole life, by the woman I had invited a fortune teller to torment.
The room was silent now. A devastating, absolute silence. My prank had worked, but it hadn’t just rattled her cage. It had blown her entire world, and by extension, ours, to smithereens. I still see her face, my MIL’s face, full of a pain I could never have imagined. And I see that cold, hard zero. A number that killed a lifetime of love and trust.
And it was all my fault.
