And me? I was the responsible one. The boring one. The human savings account.
My phone buzzed.
A text from Mom: Maddie, sweetie, the caterer is being difficult. His card machine is down. Can you Venmo me $2,000 just for an hour? Dad will pay you back as soon as we get to the bank.
I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the screen like it was a hot stove. The broken card machine excuse. Classic. They used it when Paul needed bail money. They used it when Monica “accidentally” bought a designer handbag that cost more than my rent. They used it when my mom decided a charity gala dress had to be “custom” because off-the-rack was apparently a moral failing.
I typed back: No. I told you I’m not funding this circus.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Then Monica chimed in from across the ocean like she’d been waiting with her finger on the send button.
You’re just jealous because I’m happy and you’re alone with your spreadsheets. Don’t bother coming to the reception if you change your mind.
The familiar pang hit my chest, sharp and automatic. It wasn’t jealousy. It was grief—the old wound of being invisible unless they needed something. The old reflex to prove I was good by fixing what they broke.
I didn’t reply.
Instead, I turned on Do Not Disturb. I plugged my phone into the charger. I shut off the lamp. I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to convince myself that the worst thing that could happen was a maxed-out credit card and a few angry texts in the morning.
