But the past is patient. It waits in the wings until you think the play is over. For me, the curtain rose again with the arrival of a cream-colored envelope, trimmed in gold.

The handwriting was unmistakably Vanessa’s—dramatic, sweeping, demanding attention. It lay on my kitchen counter like a live grenade. You are formally invited to the launch of Vanessa Moore’s Spring Fashion Collection.

Underneath the flourish were two names: Rebecca Moore and Lorie Moore. Not Steven. My stomach tightened. It was a classic Vanessa move—erase the parts of my life she couldn’t control.

“They didn’t include me,” Steven said quietly, reading over my shoulder. His voice held no anger, just a weary resignation.

“I’m not going,” I said, my fingers trembling. “It’s petty. It’s childish.”