Generally. To them, my presence was a footnote; Hannah’s was the main text. I hung up and walked to my office, opening my laptop. I didn’t look at blueprints or restoration schedules. I looked at my financial history.

For four years, while I was restoring historic landmarks, I had been secretly restoring my parents’ lives. I had paid $1,200 a month toward their mortgage when my father’s consulting firm collapsed. I had covered my mother’s expensive heart prescriptions when their insurance “got messy.” I had even paid for Hannah’s emergency childcare—once, then twice, then so often it became an invisible salary.

The total on the spreadsheet made my blood run cold: $62,840.

That number didn’t include the flights for this trip. It didn’t include the rental car. It didn’t include the groceries currently rotting in my refrigerator. I had been the silent benefactor of a family that treated me like a distant creditor.

I was about to close the laptop when a new email alert popped up: Hannah had used my stored credit card info on a shared account to book a luxury beach rental for “one last family hurrah” tomorrow—the day I was supposed to finally see them.

Act III: The Spreadsheet of Sorrows

On the fourth day, my best friend, Olivia Monroe, arrived at my door with takeout and a bottle of bourbon. She took one look at the set table—the candles now halfway to the silver—and her expression shifted from pity to a cold, focused rage.

“Sophia,” she said, her voice a low vibration. “This isn’t a dinner party anymore. This looks like a memorial service.”