Still, I never really let it get to me. Or at least, that’s what I told myself. I kept my head down, sent the checks when they were needed, replied to the group texts, showed up for holidays armed with wine and a practiced smile, and absorbed the small jabs that always came dressed as jokes.

“Eli, you’re so serious! Loosen up, man, it’s just a party.”

“Oh, we figured you’d be busy. You’re always working.”

I took it all in stride. I suppose a part of me, a naive, hopeful part, believed that if I just kept showing up, kept being reliable, one day I’d be seen as an integral part of the family, not just the one funding it from the background.

That illusion didn’t just crack last fall. It shattered.

It started with a dinner. Mason had just gotten engaged to a woman named Brooke, a polished and ambitious marketing executive whom my mother had already dubbed “an absolute angel.” To celebrate, my parents decided to throw a big, celebratory engagement dinner at Vistana, a swanky rooftop restaurant downtown with panoramic city views and a price tag to match. It was not the kind of place they could usually afford, which, in hindsight, should have been my first red flag.