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?”

My phone buzzed one more time before I went inside. It was a photo from Florence—white roses, candlelight, my brother in black tie, grinning under the fairy lights I had paid for.

And in the back corner of the shot, half-cut off by the frame, I saw Camille looking straight into the camera with an expression I couldn’t quite read.

Not joy. Not surprise.

Something closer to fear.

So who exactly had been laughing when they sent me away?

Part 2

If you’d met my brother Ethan at a party, you probably would’ve liked him.

He had that easy, expensive kind of charm men get praised for even when they didn’t earn it. Tall without working for it. Funny when the target wasn’t you. The kind of face strangers trusted. He could spill red wine on someone’s rug, apologize with a crooked smile, and somehow leave with a bigger tip jar and three new phone numbers.

I spent most of my life being the cleanup crew after his weather passed through.