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?”

I smiled at the receptionist. I handed over my passport. I let her tag my suitcase. I thanked her when she gave me the key card and explained breakfast hours in careful English. I rode the elevator to the fourth floor with an elderly couple who smelled like sunscreen and peppermints, and when the doors opened, I walked down a narrow hall with framed prints of lemons and coastlines, and I went into my room and stood there in silence.

The room wasn’t terrible. That almost made it crueler.

A narrow bed. A little balcony with a rusting metal chair. A white bathroom with a flickering vanity light. A bowl of wrapped candies at the desk. My garment bag laid across the bed like a body.

I sat beside it and stared at the wall until my phone buzzed again.

This time it was my brother, Ethan.

You’ll get over it.

Then:

Can you at least not ruin the vibe by posting?

I laughed. It came out ugly. Small and cracked.