“What I’m planning,” I said, sliding one last sheet from the folder, “is nothing you can stop.” I laid it on top of the pile. It was the closing paperwork for a small house, a modest two-bedroom on the other side of town, purchased outright with the bonus I’d earned that year, the bonus my family assumed would help pay for Weston’s yacht. “This is my birthday gift,” I said. “To myself. I closed on it yesterday.” Mom’s mouth opened and shut. Weston leaned forward to read it, and I watched the number register on his face.

“You bought a house?” Dad said, his voice cracking with something between disbelief and calculation. “Instead of helping your brother?” I almost laughed at how perfectly he’d proven my point. “Yes,” I said. “For five years I paid for streaming and gas and groceries and yacht parties, and not one of you remembered the day I was born. So I took the money you all assumed was yours, and I bought myself a home.” Bridget started typing on her phone, and I already knew a post was coming about how selfish I was. So I set my phone on the table, screen up, and pressed record. “Go ahead,” I said calmly. “Say it all again. Out loud. Because everything on this table, and everything said at it, I’m keeping.”