My sister blasted “INFERTILE, DIVORCED, FAILURE” across a 10-foot screen at her wedding while 200 guests laughed—my mother sipped wine, my father called it “just a joke.”

“I came because Grandma Ruth asked me to. Because even after everything, she still believes this family can be better.”

Paige’s head drops.

“I don’t hate any of you.”

I look at Harold, at Vivian.

“But I am done being your punchline. I’m done earning the right to exist in this family.”

Harold’s eyes finally lift to mine. They’re red. I’ve never seen that before.

“If you want me in your life, it starts with respect. Not conditions. Not performances. Respect.”

I pick up my clutch from table 14. I straighten my navy dress, the one I bought myself.

“And if you can’t do that, then this is goodbye.”

I walk toward the exit. Past Harold. He doesn’t look up. Past Vivian. She’s staring at the tablecloth. Past Paige. She turns her face away.

At the door, a voice stops me.

“Miss Lindon.”

I turn.

Eleanor Whitmore is standing near the coat check. Her green jacket is already on. Her car keys are in her hand.

“Monday morning. My office. We have a project to finish.”

I nod. She nods back, and I walk out into the October night.

The parking lot is half empty. Most of the early leavers are already gone.

I sit in my car with the engine off, hands on the steering wheel, staring at the country club entrance.