The night my sister forgot to lock her iPad, I found the group chat my family never meant me to see. In it, they mocked me, used me, and joked that I’d keep funding their lives if they faked love well enough. I said nothing. I let them feel safe.

For the first time that night, she had no response.

Lauren began to cry—real tears, or convincing ones. “I know what we said was awful. I know. But you don’t understand how hard things have been.”

“I understand exactly how hard things have been,” I said. “I paid for them.”

Eric stood. “Boys, coats on.” His calm voice made it harsher. He guided them out while Lauren wiped her face.

Daniel came back in from the hallway, irritated no one had followed him. “You know what? Fine. Keep your money. Don’t call us when you end up alone.”

That one hit, because it was meant to. They all knew my worst fear. Our father left when I was eleven, and for years I bought love like insurance—hoping payments would protect me.

I walked to the door and opened it.

“I was alone,” I said. “I was just expensive.”

No one moved at first.

Then Eric led the boys out. Lauren followed, dazed. Daniel brushed past without meeting my eyes. My mother paused at the threshold, bouquet still in her hand—forgotten earlier, now a prop she didn’t know how to use.

“You’ll regret this,” she said.

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