“Christina,” she said.
She always used my nickname, Chris, when she wanted to sound reasonable. When she wanted to claim the higher ground before she pushed.
“Your wedding budget is five thousand.”
The words landed like a napkin dropped on the table—light, casual, easy to ignore if you wanted to pretend it didn’t matter.
Around the table, a few eyebrows lifted. Someone chuckled like my mother had made a joke.
My mother’s smile widened, and she added, as if she were sharing a fun fact about the weather, “Your sister’s was ninety thousand.”
I felt my fingers tighten around my mimosa glass. Cold seeped into my skin. I stared at the orange slice perched on the rim like it was the only real thing in the room.
Serena didn’t even blink. She kept scrolling.
My mother’s eyes rested on me with that familiar look—half patience, half annoyance—like I was a child about to complain about something she considered silly.
“You’re just not as important to the family,” she said, still smiling.
