By the time I finished, he was quiet for a long moment.
“$79,200,” he said slowly. “And they invited you to how many family events the last 3 years?”
I actually had to think about it.
“Four, maybe five.”
He didn’t say ass out loud, but his face said it clearly enough.
That night after Daniel went to bed, I sat down at my laptop and opened a spreadsheet.
I titled it family contributions six-year record.
I logged into my bank account and started filling in rows one by one, watching six years of quiet, invisible sacrifice turn into cold, undeniable numbers on a screen.
Next to it, I opened the venue’s cancellation policy.
68 days out, 75% refund.
16,500 back.
Then I opened a third tab.
Alopment packages.
Santorini, Greece.
A cliffside villa in Oya.
Private sunset ceremony overlooking the caldera.
A local officient.
A photographer.
Five nights roundtrip flights included, $13,200, less than the refund I’d be getting back.
I sat there staring at three open browser tabs that quietly summarized my entire relationship with my family, the debt, the exit, and the future.
Daniel found me there an hour later.