“Yeah, just curious. Didn’t see one.”
She waved her hand dismissively and sipped her wine.
“We only made them for people who actually contribute to the family.”
I blinked.
For a second, I thought she was joking. I waited for the punch line, but she just raised her eyebrows like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and walked away, heels clicking against the stone tiles, her laughter trailing behind her like perfume.
I just stood there.
I could feel the heat rising up my neck.
I wasn’t angry. Not yet.
I was embarrassed.
I felt like I’d been slapped in front of a crowd. People walked past me smiling, nodding, completely unaware.
But my mind was already spiraling.
Every time I’d shown up when no one else did, every deposit I’d made, every favor I’d done quietly and without expecting credit.
And now I was being dismissed like some mooch who just showed up to eat shrimp and leave.
I didn’t follow Aunt Carol. I didn’t cause a scene.
I went to the bar, ordered something cold and strong, and found a quiet spot near the edge of the vineyard where the music was softer and the shadows longer.
That’s when I pulled out my phone.
See, I hadn’t just paid the venue deposit.
I had signed the contract.
Back when we were still touring places, Lauren had been nervous.
She didn’t have great credit, and my uncle didn’t want to put his name on another big financial commitment. I told them I could handle it.
They sent me the paperwork and I signed on the dotted line, told them to pay me back whenever.
I never expected to hold it over them.
But now, now I was sitting alone at a party I’d helped create, being treated like some kind of outsider.
Not family, not enough.
I opened the email thread with the venue manager, scrolled down to the part about cancellations, took a deep breath, and started typing.
“Hi, Amelia. Just confirming that we’d like to proceed with the cancellation of the reservation for tonight’s event. Please let me know if you need anything else from my side.”
It felt petty.
I stared at the message for a long moment.
My thumb hovered over the send button.
Then I thought of Aunt Carol’s face. The way she’d smirked. The way Lauren hadn’t even said hello when I arrived.
The way I’d never been seen, never been acknowledged, never been appreciated, just used.
I hit send.
Nothing happened right away.