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?”

Not because I was shocked. I wish I could say that. Shock would imply novelty. But there was nothing in her words that was new. Only condensed. Refined. Stripped of the softer packaging she usually wrapped around it.

Women like Alyssa.

Not my daughter.

Not your sister.

A category. A cautionary tale. A type.

I called Camille back.

She answered immediately, like she’d been standing over the phone waiting.

“Who took that?” I asked.

“My makeup artist,” she said. “By accident at first. She was filming a product setup for her socials, then realized what she caught and sent it to me after.”

“And you just had this?”

“I got it Monday. I’ve watched it maybe fifty times.”

There was shame in her voice now. Real shame. Not the decorative kind.

“You should’ve sent it sooner.”

“I know.”

I stood and walked to my kitchen because standing still suddenly felt impossible. The floor was cool under my bare feet. My coffee mug was still full from that morning, cold now, a slick rainbow sheen floating on top.

“What do you want me to do with this?” I asked.

“Whatever you want.”

I let out a laugh that had no humor in it. “That’s convenient.”

“It’s not convenient. My life is on fire.”