My sister’s son hurled a dinner fork at me and declared, “Mom says you’re basically the help.” The table erupted in laughter. I was gone before dessert ever reached the plates.

I called David and gave him the new terms. “Make it airtight,” I told him. “No wiggle room.”

Christmas came faster than I expected.

December blurred into work deadlines and paperwork and family group chats that pretended nothing had happened. Mom sent recipes. Uncle Robert sent memes. Jennifer posted ski photos with heart emojis like she hadn’t laughed hard enough at Thanksgiving to nearly choke.

Jessica texted only once a month:

Mortgage paid. Screenshot attached.

Good, I replied.

No emojis. No extra words.

On December 24th, I drove back to Jessica’s house.

The neighborhood glittered with lights and inflatable snowmen and that fake, forced holiday cheer that always looks nicer from the outside. Jessica’s house was lit tastefully—white lights on the eaves, wreath on the door, lanterns lining the walkway like a magazine spread.

I sat in my car behind my mother’s sedan and breathed through the tightness in my chest.

I wasn’t coming for their approval.

I was coming for closure.

I knocked once.

The door swung open almost immediately.