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?”

Florence lit up my brother’s smile in every one of them. White roses. Golden chandeliers. Candlelight kissing the rims of crystal glasses. Camille in ivory silk and lace, radiant in the gown I had partly covered when the boutique “unexpectedly” increased her alteration fees. Ethan in a tux, hand at the small of her back like he’d built the evening himself.

People were tagging me.

Where are you???
Thought you’d be maid of honor lol
Alyssa did you do all this? It’s gorgeous

I didn’t answer any of them.

Instead, I clicked through image after image and watched myself disappear in real time.

The welcome dinner was at the terrace restaurant where I had negotiated the per-head rate after the original quote came back absurd. The string quartet on the lawn? My contact. The custom stationery? Paid after Ethan swore he’d hit a limit. The late-night gelato cart everyone was posting with little heart emojis? My idea, my vendor, my invoice.

Ghost sponsor. That was the phrase that came into my mind.

I was haunting a wedding I funded and wasn’t allowed to attend.