My sister stole my fiancé and my savings. At her wedding I asked the DJ to play a file — not a song.

She wanted a toast from the maid of honor. For reasons involving our mother, that was me.

I stood up, thanked everyone, and told the sound engineer to play the file I'd sent that morning.

The first voicemail was eleven months old. The groom's voice. Not my sister's name.

The second was worse.

By the fifth the room had stopped pretending not to listen. My mother had both hands over her mouth. The groom was running for the sound booth.

I had seventeen loaded. I had timed them to fit inside a toast.

The DJ looked at me and mouthed: Next?