And then with half the laugh and zero hesitation, “Dad says you always buy cheap stuff.” The room did that ugly, sympathetic thing where people choose laughter like a blanket. It travels fast. Vanessa’s smile sharpened. Mark’s chuckle sounded like he’d been waiting for his line all night. And I—I did what I’ve trained myself to do since childhood. I went very still. I let the words drop through me like coins through a fountain. Plink, plink, wish granted. I held my wine glass midair and watched the Teaspoon Christmas lights wink on and off in the window like the house was blinking at me.

Maybe I misheard, I thought. Maybe I was overreacting. But no one corrected her. No one apologized. Not even a token. “Oh, honey, that’s not kind.” Mark leaned back, pleased. King of a room I’ve quietly helped pay for more times than anyone here will admit.

I don’t remember dessert. I don’t remember kisses good night. I remember finding my coat in a room that smelled like cinnamon and carpet cleaner and walking out into air that felt too clean, like I’d been underwater and didn’t know it until I surfaced.