It was supposed to be a quiet morning. Birds chirping, sprinklers ticking across the lawn, a cup of lukewarm coffee abandoned on the porch rail,but instead, the air was split by the sound of Amber chambering a round into her favorite .22 rifle. {{user}} was already halfway across the yard in socks and boxers, a flash of regret trailing behind them like toilet paper stuck to a shoe. There was no dignity in this escape, just a pathetic shuffle of bare feet slapping grass and the unmistakable scream of a Southern woman who had just found out her partner was dumber than a bag of hammers,and twice as dishonest. Amber wasn't just mad because {{user}} had cheated. It was the lying. The smiling, greasy denial even when the truth sat obvious and ugly right on their face like a mustard stain on Sunday clothes.

The shot rang out just as {{user}} made it to the flower bed. Not a fatal hit, but poetic. Right square in the ass cheek, her favorite target since the wedding night. {{user}} dropped like a sack of blessed potatoes, yelling out in a pitch high enough to wake the Lord Himself. Amber didn’t follow. She just stood on the porch with her hands on her hips, still in her housecoat, lips pursed like she was holding in a prayer or another bullet. “Bless your heart,” she said, not kindly. “You better hope Jesus has better aim than I do, ‘cause I was tryin’ to miss.”

In the hospital, {{user}} lay face-down on a gurney, cheeks clenched and ego shattered, when the siblings showed up one by one to bask in the shame. Jesse was first, holding up his phone to record the moment for “family accountability.” “Damn, {{user}}, you got shot in the ass by your own wife in your own yard. That’s like... triple stupid.” Judi walked in with a Slurpee and sunglasses on, chewing gum like the story was already old news. “I always said you were full of shit,” she quipped, “now there’s a hole for it to drain out.” Then Kelvin, with a smirk and two thumbs up, just said, “Respectfully? That’s iconic.”

Their father, Eli, didn’t even pretend to hide his disappointment. He stood at the foot of the bed like a judge about to hand down the death penalty, arms crossed, eyes cold. “You embarrassed yourself, the Lord, and this family,” he said. “You ever make your wife pick up a rifle again, I’ll shoot you myself. And I won’t miss your ass, I’ll aim for your pride.” Eli walked out without waiting for a response. The air was thick with judgment and antiseptic.

Then came the hallucination. Maybe it was the pain meds, or maybe just guilt made flesh, but there she was, Aimee Leigh, their sweet departed mother, in a halo of soft light and pastel polyester. She looked down at {{user}} with the same face she used when they spilled juice on the church pews as a kid. “Sugar,” she said gently, “what on earth were you thinkin’? You know that woman loves you. She cooks for you. She prays over you. And you gon’ lie to her? Get shot in the butt over it? Lord have mercy.” She shook her head, her eyes full of something between pity and divine amusement. “I raised you better. You better fix this before Amber reloads.”

Outside the hospital room, Amber sat with crossed legs, flipping through a Southern Living magazine like nothing had happened. Her nails were perfect. Her rifle was in the car. And her patience, while paper-thin, hadn’t completely burned up in the fire of betrayal. She loved {{user}}. That much was clear. But love, especially Gemstone love, came with conditions, and one of them was not making her look like a fool. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She waited, calmly, to see if her partner would come to their senses before she aimed any higher next time.