After I paid $77,000 for my brother’s wedding, he sent me to the wrong city in Italy “as a joke.” I landed in Naples while they were celebrating in Florence. The next morning, he texted: “LOL, I just didn’t want you there.” My mother added, “This is your fault.” I didn’t argue. I smiled… and sent her a gift—four feet tall, delivered by courier. She called me in tears: “Can I please pay you back?”

“Alyssa, you’re the only sane person in this circus.”

“Alyssa, can you look at these florist bids?”

“Alyssa, I swear I’d drown without you.”

It’s embarrassing now, how easily I confused being useful with being loved.

I remember one night in February, rain streaking my apartment windows while I sat cross-legged on the floor with my laptop open and three vendor spreadsheets spread around me. Camille was on FaceTime from a white kitchen so immaculate it looked staged.

“Okay,” I said, “if we cut the champagne tower and switch the welcome bags to local pastries instead of custom monogrammed boxes, you can save almost six thousand.”

She leaned closer to the screen. “You’re a genius.”

“No,” I said, smiling despite myself. “I’m just not emotionally attached to tiny jars of imported honey.”

She laughed. Then her face changed, softened. “I mean it, Alyssa. Ethan’s lucky to have you.”

The stupidest part is that I believed her.

Three weeks later, Ethan showed up at my apartment looking like a man fleeing a fire. His hair was damp from the snow, his jaw shadowed with stubble, coat half-zipped. He paced between my couch and kitchen counter while I made him coffee.