Nobody from my family came to my wedding. Weeks later….

The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet morning. My heart did a stupid, treacherous leap. Maybe they’re sorry.

I picked it up. It was a text from my father, Thomas Flores.

There was no apology. No question about my well-being. The text read:
“We will need $8,400 for your brother’s wedding venue deposit. You have always been the responsible one.”

I read it twice. Three times. The audacity sucked the air from my lungs. He hadn’t just ignored my wedding; less than twenty-four hours later, he was invoicing me for the Golden Boy’s celebration. He was using his favorite weapon—my own competence—against me. “Responsible Nola.” “Nola the Fixer.”

I handed the phone to David. I watched a muscle in his jaw twitch.