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?”

That, more than anything, did it. The act. The shame-colored voice. The pretense that he understood sacrifice because he had learned to mimic its silhouette.

“Why can’t Mom help?”

He laughed once, bitter. “Mom has eight thousand in a money market and three hundred thousand opinions. She says this is the kind of thing siblings do.”

That night I didn’t sleep. I ran budgets until dawn. I opened and closed my banking apps. I walked barefoot over the cold wood floor of my apartment while rain ticked at the windows.

At 4:12 a.m., I made a spreadsheet called WEDDING BRIDGE.

At 8:03 a.m., I sent Ethan a text: I can cover some of it. Under conditions.

He showed up with pastries and a hug I didn’t want.

The conditions got blurrier over time. Of course they did. A little more here. An advance there. One vendor card charged to “keep things moving.” Then another. Then the florist lost imported ranunculus in a shipping issue and needed replacement funds. Then the rehearsal dinner menu had to change because Camille’s mother suddenly decided burrata was “too provincial.” Then a planner quit and somehow I became the planner without the title.