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 only got your email from the shower RSVP chain, and honestly?” Lena exhaled. “Your family scared me.”

That almost made me laugh. Of course they did. People like my mother and brother always look polished from a distance. You don’t see the teeth until you get close.

After I hung up, I went back through my call log from the wedding weekend.

No missed calls from Camille.

No voicemails.

One unknown number on Saturday morning at 9:14 a.m., the exact time hair and makeup would’ve been in full swing in Florence. I’d ignored it because I was standing in line for a coffee and sfogliatella in Naples, wearing sunglasses to hide the fact that I’d been crying in public.

I dialed the number.

It rang four times.

Then a woman answered, cautious. “Hello?”

“This is Alyssa Monroe. You called me Saturday morning.”

Silence. Then a soft, sharp intake of breath.

“Alyssa,” Camille said.

Her voice was lower than I expected. Hoarse, maybe from disuse, maybe from stress, maybe from the kind of crying you do with your mouth closed so no one hears.

“You called,” I said.

“I did.”

“Why?”

A long pause. I could hear something faint on her end—ice in a glass, maybe, and the muffled sound of a television in another room.