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?”

“Not yet.”

“He thinks you’re going to send it to my father.”

“Am I supposed to reassure you?”

“No.” She sounded tired enough to fold in half. “I just wanted to tell you I’m leaving our apartment tonight.”

The room around me slowed.

“You’re what?”

“I’m going to my cousin’s place in Brooklyn.”

I rubbed my temple. “You live in Connecticut.”

“Not tonight.”

There was movement on her end—drawer opening, zipper, hangers maybe. Packing.

“What happened?” I asked.

She gave a short laugh. “He called the postnup a routine precaution. I asked him if informing his new wife about seventy-seven thousand dollars he owed his sister was also routine. He said I was weaponizing your feelings.”

Of course he did.

“And your mother?” I asked.

“She told me not to overreact and that you’ve always been vindictive when embarrassed.”

I closed my eyes. Somewhere outside, a siren rose and fell.

“So what now?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Camille said. “I know I married someone I don’t trust. I know your mother is worse than I wanted to see. And I know if I stay in that apartment tonight, I’m going to become the kind of woman who starts calling cruelty ‘complicated.’”

That landed harder than I expected.