Every family gathering, she was there. Clingy. Loud. Calling him “Ricky” in front of my grandma. Laughing way too hard at his dad jokes.

And the way he looked at her—like she was some golden trophy he’d earned. Like she made him young again. Like we were just relics of his past.

It stung. Every. Single. Time.

When my mom had surgery last year, he didn’t even visit the hospital. “I’ll send something,” he texted. But for Melissa’s birthday, he rented a rooftop bar and flew in a private chef.

That was when something in me snapped.

I heard about the party through my cousin. I wasn’t invited, of course. But I went anyway. And I didn’t go alone.