I let my sister use my house for her wedding reception. By the end of the night, she had already told everyone she was moving in. When the moving

Every dollar of my savings poured into those walls after twelve years of overtime shifts at the dental office, after passing on vacations, after fixing the roof one year and replacing the furnace the next. My house—where I had agreed, against my better judgment, to host her reception because their venue deposit had fallen through and she had stood in my kitchen crying, saying she’d be humiliated if the wedding looked cheap.

I had spent three weeks cleaning. Rented tables.

Ordered extra chairs. Allowed strangers to drag mud through my hallway because she was my younger sister—and because before she died, our mother made me promise Christine would never feel alone.

I set the tray down hard enough to make the remaining glasses rattle.

Ten minutes later, I found her by the cake table. “What did you just tell people?”

She sighed as if I were the problem.

“Not now, Kate.”

“No. Right now.”

Her new husband, Michael, stood beside her in a rented tux, pretending to study the frosting roses.

Christine crossed her arms. “I said we’re moving in.”

“You’re what?”

She lowered her voice, but not her attitude.

“Relax. It makes sense. You have space, we’re just starting out, and family helps family.”

I stared at her.