“It’s one day.”
“It’s my wedding,” I said.
“And it’s my career.”
“Since when does your career outrank my marriage?”
She tilted her head the way she does when she thinks she’s being patient with someone slower.
“Since it pays for Mom and Dad’s new roof.”
That stopped me.
I didn’t know Courtney was funding anything for our parents.
Or more accurately, I didn’t know our parents were telling Courtney she was funding them.
“What roof?” I asked.
“Dad said the estimate was twelve thousand.”
“I covered half.”
“Brand money.”
She shrugged like it was nothing.
Like writing a $6,000 check to your parents at twenty-five was just the price of being the favorite.
“Courtney, listen to me.”
“I’m not moving the date.”
“Then you’re going to lose them.”
“I already lost them a long time ago.”
She blinked.
For half a second, something cracked behind the ring light.
A flicker of recognition.
Maybe guilt.
Then it sealed shut.
“Just do what they want,” she said.
“When it’s easier.”
“Easier for who?” I asked.
She ended the call.
I stood in the kitchen holding my phone, and something Courtney said kept circling.
Since it pays for Mom and Dad’s new roof.
Courtney thought she was the family benefactor.
She had no idea—or maybe she did—that my parents had other funding sources.
Sources with my name on them.
When Derek finished pulling my full credit report the next morning, we found out exactly where the roof money really came from.
Before I could process what Derek found, my father went nuclear.
Harold Foster sent a message to the family group chat.
Thirty-two people.
Three generations.
From Aunt Patty to my seventeen-year-old cousin in Jacksonville.
Diane and I will not attend Wendy’s wedding.
She has made it clear that our family traditions don’t matter to her.
We hope she’ll come around.
Please respect our decision and give us privacy during this painful time.
Painful time.
Like he was the one selling his car and picking up night shifts.
The responses piled up.
Not for me.
For them.
So sorry, Harold.
Praying for you both.
She’ll regret this one day.
An aunt I hadn’t seen since 2019 sent me a private message.
Shame on you, Wendy.
An uncle wrote: Your parents gave you everything. Everything.
They gave Courtney everything.
They gave me a social security number to borrow against, but I didn’t know that part yet.
Not fully.
I turned off my phone.
