“Tell me that you broke into my house and threw a party?”
She sighed like I was the inconvenience. “Don’t be dramatic. I used the spare key Mom has. Your place is bigger than mine, and this is a huge night for me.”
“My house is not available,” I said, already grabbing my laptop bag from the hotel chair as if I could somehow run all the way back to Texas.
Madison laughed again, brighter and harsher this time. “This night isn’t about you. I’m not stopping for anyone.”
In the background, someone shouted, “Speech! Speech!”
I glanced back at the camera feed and saw a man leaning against the antique cabinet my late husband had restored by hand, while another guest carried a red drink through my living room where the white rug sat beneath the coffee table.
“Shut it down now,” I said.
“No.”
That single word settled something inside me.
For years, Madison had taken from me—my clothes, my money, my patience, even my name—and every time I objected, my mother would say that successful people needed support while “sensitive people needed perspective.”
So I stopped arguing.
