I was the maid of honor at my cousin Paige’s wedding, which is where I watched Karma arrive wearing a satin tie and a fake smile. Paige’s brother Nolan was the golden child. Handsome, charming, never wrong.
When he quit jobs, it was he’s figuring himself out. When Paige needed help paying for community college, it was money’s tight. Nolan got tight money turned into here’s a down payment.
At the rehearsal dinner, Nolan gave a toast that somehow became a TED talk about how he taught Paige resilience. He joked about her phases, her overreactions, her little emotions. Everyone laughed because that’s what the family does.
Laugh along so the golden child stays golden. Paige’s face did this tiny flinch. I recognized the one you make when you’re swallowing an old bruise.
After dinner, Paige’s mom pulled Nolan aside near the kitchen. I was refilling water pitchers close enough to hear. She told him, quiet, firm.
You’re not doing this tomorrow. Don’t make it about you. If you cause a scene, this is on you.
Nolan rolled his eyes. Relax. I’m the best man.
People want me. Wedding day, gorgeous venue, soft string lights, perfect photos. Nolan shows up late, sunglasses on inside, smelling like he’d slept in a bar.
He insists on adding something special to his best man speech. He keeps winking at the DJ like they’re co-conspirators. Then he does it.
Mid speech, he pulls out his phone and says, “We’re going to play a little slideshow, just some funny memories. The screen lights up, only it’s not his slideshow. It starts with a text thread.” Nolan’s name at the top.
Messages to a number saved as P. The first one, you looked so good last night. Tell your fiance I said hi.
The room makes this collective sound like someone dropped a tray of glass. Paige turns toward the groom, and I swear you can see her trying to calculate reality. Nolan lunges for the DJ booth, panicking, shouting that it’s not what it looks like.
The slideshow keeps going. Selfies in hotel bathrooms. A screenshot of a bank transfer with don’t tell anyone in the memo.
Then a picture of Paige’s engagement ring box on Nolan’s bed. The bride’s father stands up so fast his chair tips. Here’s the twist.
The number P wasn’t Paige. It was Pastor Daniel’s wife, Patricia. The same woman sitting in the front row, hand over her mouth, mascara already running.
Apparently, Nolan had been sleeping with her for months and bragging about it in texts. Nolan had asked the DJ to pull up the slideshow from my email, but he forwarded the wrong file, one Patricia had compiled when she found out and planned to confront him later. Paige’s mom walked up to Nolan in front of everyone, took the mic from his shaking hand, and said into dead silence, “We warned you.
This is on you.” Then she turned to Paige and added, “Softer, but louder somehow, and you never have to laugh along again.” Paige didn’t cry. She just smiled, this small, relieved smile, like the villain finally slipped on his own banana peel, then asked the DJ to play music and told everyone to eat cake. The ceremony still happened.
Nolan got escorted out by two uncles and a bridesmaid with pepper spray. Also,
Story seven.
I’m the neighbor who accidentally became exhibit A. The golden child on our street was a guy named Ross. His parents treated him like the HOA president of the universe.
He could park across driveways, blast music at 2 a.m., leave trash bins in the road. Any complaint was, “People are jealous.” Ross had a hustle doing home renovations, except it was mostly loud trucks and not finishing jobs. He’d borrow tools and forget to return them.
When someone confronted him, his mom would show up with cookies and a guilt trip. Then Ross decided he needed a pool. Not just any pool, one of those big in-ground ones that require permits, inspections, and a contractor who isn’t learning on YouTube.
He started digging anyway. The first day, my dog refused to go near the fence, hair standing up. The second day, our water pressure dropped.
The third day, my basement smelled like wet pennies. I knocked on their door. Ross’s dad answered, looking like a man who spent years apologizing for someone else.
I explained what was happening. Ross’s mom snapped. Our son knows what he’s doing.
2 hours later, the city inspector showed up. Someone else had called. Ross came out swaggering, tried to talk his way through it.
The inspector asked for permits. Ross joked. The inspector didn’t laugh.
Ross’ parents actually argued with the inspector. Like, you can negotiate the concept of law. That night, Ross’ dad stood in their driveway while Ross ranted about snitches and haters.
His dad finally said the magic words, “We are not bailing you out. This is on you. Ross screamed.
Fine. I’ll fix it myself. Next morning, I heard a sound that made my bones vibrate like a deep womph and then a scream.
The ground had collapsed. Not just his yard, part of mine, too. A sinkhole opened where he’d undermined the soil.
His half-dug pool became a crater that swallowed his brand new pickup up to the axles. But the karmic twist wasn’t the crater. It was what bubbled up inside it.
A thick, foul smelling brown stream started seeping from the exposed earth. The inspector came back. Then another truck.
Then men in hazmat looking gear. Turns out Ross had punctured an old undocumented sewer line. The wet pennies smell in my basement.
Sewage backflow. Ross stood there pale watching officials take photos while his mom sobbed about how unfair it was. Then his dad walked over to me with a clipboard form the city and said quietly, “I’m sorry.
I expected the usual. He’ll handle it. They’ll pay.
Everyone pretends it’s fine.” Instead, he looked at Ross, who was shaking and gagging, and said loud enough for the whole cul-de-sac. You wanted to be the man of the house. Congratulations.
Ross opened his mouth to argue. His dad handed him the form with the repair estimate, an amount that made Ross’ knees actually buckle, and finished the sentence like a gavel. This is on you.
Later, when the city crew patched the line, the foreman pointed at Ross’ crater and said almost kindly, “You know this is public record now, right? Anyone can look up the violation. Ross’s face went slack as he realized the entire neighborhood would be able to Google his karma.
And my dog finally peed in the yard again, right on the edge of Ross’ sinkhole. And
Story 8.
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