We were ghosts at our own celebration. Then the check arrived—$823. Full of drinks, appetizers, and desserts we didn’t order. I asked the waiter to split the bill. “We’ll pay for what’s ours. The rest is Nolan’s.” And we left. Quietly. No scene. No drama. That night, Nolan called, furious. “You embarrassed me!” he shouted. “No,” I replied. “You embarrassed yourself.” A week later,
a box arrived. Inside: a onesie that read Cool Aunt, and a crumpled receipt marked Paid. No note. No apology. It wasn’t closure, but it was distance. And that, finally, felt like peace. Our wedding is in six months. The guest list is short—and Nolan isn’t on it. He already had his party.
