“What I’m planning,” I said, sliding one last sheet from the folder, “is nothing you can stop.” I placed the closing paperwork on the table. It was for a modest two-bedroom house across town, purchased outright with the bonus I had earned that year—the same money my family assumed would help pay for Weston’s yacht.

“This is my birthday gift,” I said. “To myself. I closed on it yesterday.” Mom stared in disbelief while Weston leaned forward to read the paperwork. Dad’s voice cracked as he asked why I had bought a house instead of helping my brother. I almost laughed. For five years, I had paid for groceries, gas, streaming services, and yacht parties while my family somehow never remembered my birthday. Then Bridget began typing on her phone, clearly preparing another post about how selfish I was. So I placed my phone on the table and pressed record. “Go ahead,” I said. “Say it all again. Out loud. Because everything said here, I’m keeping.”