I stood in the cool night air with the phone against my ear and asked Rosalie the only question that mattered. “What exactly does my mother need me to fix?” There was a rustle, and then she lowered her voice even further. “It’s the money, Sebastian. The venue for Camille’s party. The deposit bounced. Your parents put it on a card that got declined in front of everyone, in front of the fiancé’s family from Europe. And apparently the account it was supposed to come from is one you’re on. Something your dad set up years ago. They can’t move the money without you.”

The pieces clicked into place with a cold, sick clarity. Years ago my father had added me to a joint account he used for “family emergencies,” and I had never thought about it since. Now, on the very night they had abandoned me, they had tried to fund the party that replaced my wedding out of an account that required my authorization, and it had failed publicly, humiliatingly, in front of the exact people they were trying to impress. That was why my mother had called sixty-seven times. Not to apologize. Not to explain. She needed me to log in and rescue Camille’s engagement party from the disaster it had become.