My sister had already printed my name on seventy-six invitations when she informed me I was paying for her daughter’s birthday party.
Not asked.
Informed.
Paige revealed the plan on a Thursday night at Bellini’s, the Italian restaurant where our family met twice a month.
She waited until after our food arrived, when leaving would look dramatic and refusing would create an audience.
That was one of her talents.
Paige understood social pressure the way some people understood spreadsheets.
She slid her phone toward me with a bright smile.
“Look at the ceiling,” she said.
On the screen was a photograph of Cedar House Conservatory, an event venue outside the city with a glass roof, hanging lights, polished concrete floors, and enough space for a small wedding.
“Pretty,” I said.
“That’s where we’re doing Sophie’s birthday.”
My eleven-year-old niece looked up from the sugar packets she was stacking beside her lemonade.
“I thought we were doing bowling.”
Paige gave her a quick smile.
“This is better, honey.”
Then she swiped to the next photo.
A DJ booth.
Then a dessert wall.
Then a gaming trailer parked outside the venue.
Then a photographer’s sample gallery.
My stomach tightened before I even saw the price.
“How much?” I asked.
Paige waved one hand.
“It sounds worse all at once.”
“How much?”
She hesitated.
“About twelve-eight.”
“Twelve thousand eight hundred dollars?”
“$12,860, but that includes almost everything.”
Across the table, Mom kept eating as though we were discussing a grocery list.
I looked back at Paige.
“And why are you showing me this?”
Her smile faltered.
“Because the final payment is due tomorrow.”
I still didn’t understand.
Then she opened the digital invitation.
Sophie’s name was written in gold script over a photograph of glittering lights.
Beneath the date and address was a line I read twice because my brain rejected it the first time.
With love from Aunt Rachel.
I was Aunt Rachel.
I set the phone down.
“I’m not paying for this.”
Paige laughed.
When I didn’t, she stopped.
“Rachel.”
“No.”
“But everything’s booked.”
“That sounds like something you should have considered before booking it.”
Mom’s knife touched her plate with a small metallic click.
“Don’t start,” she said.
I turned toward her.
“I’m not starting anything.”
“You know how hard this year has been for Paige.”
I did.
Eight months earlier, Paige’s marriage had ended after years of fighting.
Her ex-husband moved two states away for work.
Money became tight while lawyers sorted out custody and property.
I had helped because Sophie was caught in the middle.
I paid $3,000 toward Paige’s attorney retainer.
I covered three months of rent when she moved into a smaller townhouse.
I bought Sophie’s school clothes and paid for a summer science camp she had been excited about before the divorce.
When Paige called one night crying because her debit card had been declined at a pharmacy, I added her as an authorized user on a low-limit credit card I kept for family emergencies.
“Groceries, medicine, school emergencies,” I told her.
“Nothing else.”
She agreed.
At the time, I thought I was creating a safety net.
I didn’t realize Paige was beginning to view the net as part of her income.
“You’ve already helped so much,” Paige said at the restaurant.
“What’s one more
