I told her no.
“Keep it.”
“Why?”
I thought about the paper crown at Burger King when I was seven.
The laughter.
The Naples hotel.
The text message.
The empty chair in Florence.
Then I thought about the moment I had stopped pleading with people to admit I deserved better and simply acted like I believed it myself.
“Because,” I said, “I already got what I needed from it.”
Not revenge.
Not a ruined wedding.
Not even the money, though I intended to recover every dollar we had agreed on.
What I got was proof that the family role I’d been assigned wasn’t permanent.
Ethan could make me the punch line only while I kept standing on his stage.
Mom could blame me only while I kept accepting guilt that belonged to someone else.
And $77,000 could buy flowers, champagne, lights, and a beautiful villa in Florence.
But it couldn’t buy love.
The strange thing was, once I finally understood that, I stopped wanting to purchase it.
