I lean closer to my drafting table, nudging the letter spacing on Mason and Brooke’s engagement invitations by half a hair for the third time.
The late-afternoon light pours through the tall windows of my apartment and spreads across the workspace I built for myself one paycheck at a time: the oak drafting table, the brass lamp, the trays of paper samples arranged by weight and finish, the swatches of ribbon pinned to a corkboard, the ceramic mug filled with brush pens. Outside, a February wind rattles the bare branches along the street, but in here everything is warm, precise, controlled. Exactly the way I like it.
On the screen, the metallic copper accents catch the light like something expensive and celebratory. Elegant without trying too hard. Refined. Strong. The sort of design that looks effortless only because someone put their whole heart into making it so.
I sit back and study it again.
Perfect.
Almost perfect.
My brother deserves nothing less.
My phone buzzes against the oak surface and skids toward my coffee mug. I catch it just before it tips over, smiling automatically when I see Mason’s name.
That smile is still on my face when I open the message.
Party’s this weekend. Guest list is super tight. Hope you understand.
My hand stops moving.
For a second, the room goes so still I can hear the radiator click in the corner.
I read the text again, slower this time, certain my eyes have rearranged the words into something crueler than what he meant.
Party’s this weekend. Guest list is super tight. Hope you understand.
The brush pen slips from my fingers and drags a dark streak across a sample invitation.
“What?”
The word lands in the apartment and goes nowhere.
I reach for the phone too fast. My elbow catches my coffee mug. It tips, sending a dark wave across my sketch paper and invoice notebook, soaking a month’s worth of careful notes.
I barely notice.
My eyes lock instead on the framed photograph beside my workspace.
Mason is grinning in his Army uniform, younger and leaner than he is now, holding up one of the care packages I used to send him overseas. In the photo, three boxes are stacked at his feet, each one covered in customs forms and priority-mail stickers. I remember every item inside them because I packed every one with my own hands. Protein bars. Wool socks. Over-the-counter cold medicine. Homemade cookies sealed in vacuum bags so they wouldn’t go stale before they reached Germany. Handwritten notes tucked between snack packs because he once admitted that the nights were the hardest part.
I remember assembling those boxes at two in the morning while a freelance deadline blinked on my laptop. I remember standing in line at the post office downtown with three overstuffed cartons and a pinched shoulder because military mail cutoffs did not wait for anyone. I remember him calling them lifesavers.
My throat tightens.
I grab my phone and dial Dad.
He answers on the fourth ring.
“Monroe?” His voice is distracted, a little impatient, like I’ve caught him halfway through a weather report or a football recap.
“Everything okay, Dad?” My voice sounds calmer than I feel. “Mason just texted me about some party this weekend for his engagement. There has to be some confusion.”
A beat of silence.
Then a sigh.
“It’s just a get-together, Monroe. Nothing formal.”
