Inside, on top of the crystal serving bowl I had bought them, lay a neatly typed invoice. Wedding cake, four tiers. Ingredients, $286, receipts stapled behind it. Labor, four days at Grandma’s kitchen table. And underneath, in my handwriting, the exact words Kayla had said to Grandma: Of course I’ll cover the ingredients and pay you for your time.

Kayla laughed too loudly and tried to close the lid. “It’s a joke,” she told the room. But my brother had already taken the invoice out of her hands. He read it once. Then again. The muscle in his jaw tightened the way Dad’s used to. He turned to his new wife in front of all 180 guests. “Kayla,” he said quietly, “I gave you nine hundred dollars in cash on Thursday to pay Grandma. Where is it?”