My phone buzzed with a text from Maya, the only true friend who’d stuck with me through everything. Did you get it? The invitation? Are you going?

I took a large swallow of whiskey before responding. Haven’t decided.

Girl, you HAVE to go. Walk in there with your head held high. Judge Eleanor Marshall. Make them all eat their words.

It was easy for her to say. She hadn’t been there for the Thanksgiving dinner five years ago when James had stood up, glass in hand, and announced to our extended family that I was nothing but a disappointment who would never contribute anything meaningful to this world.