Uncle James smiled at me. “How’s life in that $1.5 million house you purchased?” My sister stopped bragging about her engagement ring. My parents exchanged panicked looks. My father whispered, “James, what house?” I calmly sipped my wine as Uncle James continued, I knew the real fun was just beginning.

The air inside the Riverside Ballroom was thick with the scent of expensive lilies, desperation, and the distinct, metallic tang of envy. It was a production, really—a three-act play disguised as an engagement party, starring my sister, Brooke, and her platinum ring.

For the past hour, two hundred guests had been subjected to the “The Ring,” a two-carat radiant cut that had cost her fiancé, Mark, three months of his salary and, judging by the look in his eyes, a significant portion of his soul. Brooke held her hand aloft with the stamina of an Olympic torchbearer, recounting the proposal story for the fifteenth time.

“And then,” Brooke squealed, her voice pitching up to a frequency that threatened the crystal stemware, “he got down on one knee right there on the gondola! Can you believe it?”