“…Congratulations to the bride and groom!”
The DJ’s voice echoed awkwardly through the hall. Guests looked around, confused. My heart was pounding so loudly I could barely hear.
Then the microphone crackled again.
“Before you call the police,” the voice continued, “maybe you should check under Table Seven.”
A ripple of murmurs spread across the room.
My husband squeezed my hand. “What is this?”
I walked slowly toward Table Seven, every step feeling unreal. One of my cousins bent down and reached underneath.
“There’s something here!”
He dragged out the card box — intact.
Not torn open.
Not empty.
Locked.
The room went silent.
The DJ chuckled nervously. “Okay, okay! It was supposed to be part of the surprise…”
That’s when my maid of honor stepped forward, holding her phone. She was grinning.
“We may have staged a tiny bit of drama,” she admitted. “But only because everyone pitched in for something bigger.”
She nodded toward the projector screen behind us.
It flickered on.
A slideshow of photos began playing — childhood pictures, our first date, our engagement — and then an image of a house.
Not just any house.
A down payment receipt.
Signed by our closest family and friends.
Gasps filled the hall.
“We knew you two have been saving for years,” my best man said. “So instead of envelopes of cash, we pooled everything together.”
The DJ raised the box key in the air.
“No one stole your gifts,” he said with a wink. “We just upgraded them.”
I burst into tears — real ones this time — as my husband wrapped his arms around me.
Karma hadn’t struck.
Love had.
