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?”

You know what kills me? Not that he did it. Not even that he enjoyed it. It was that my first instinct, even then, was to inventory my mistakes. Had I said something wrong in the last few weeks? Had I been too involved in the planning? Not involved enough? Did Camille—his fiancée—hate me? Had my mother finally gotten tired of pretending she could stand me in photos?

I sat there and replayed everything that had brought me to Italy.

The deposits.

The florist.

The midnight calls.

The way Ethan always said, “You’re better at this stuff than I am,” as if incompetence were a crown people should admire on him.

The way Mom called me “reliable” in that tone that meant useful, not loved.

It had started six months earlier with a coffee-stained legal pad and Ethan crying at my kitchen table because his venue budget had exploded and Camille was threatening to cancel the wedding if they couldn’t save face.

“Alyssa,” he’d said, eyes red, voice raw, “I’m asking because you’re the only one I trust.”

Trust. Another word that had only ever meant I would pay.