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?”

“The villa wants another deposit by Friday,” he said. “Camille’s dad backed out of covering the difference because of some stock thing or tax thing or whatever. She’s freaking out. Her mom says if the venue changes, people will talk.”

“People always talk,” I said.

“You know what I mean.” He dragged both hands down his face. “I can’t have this blow up.”

I should’ve said that weddings aren’t emergencies.

I should’ve said adults adjust.

Instead I asked, “How much?”

He told me.

I remember the sound my refrigerator made right then, that low old hum, and the smell of the coffee between us, dark and slightly burnt because I’d left it on the hot plate too long. I remember staring at him and hearing my own heartbeat like a fist inside my ears.

“That’s insane.”

“I know.” His voice cracked. “I know, Alyssa. I’m just asking for a bridge. A temporary thing. We’ll repay you after the wedding. Camille’s trust disbursement comes in August. Mom said maybe you’d understand.”

Mom said maybe you’d understand.

Of course she had.

“How much have you already put down?” I asked.