Completely.
It was Mom’s sixtieth birthday, one of those celebrations she repeatedly claimed she never wanted while somehow spending eight months organizing every detail.
A rented ballroom.
White roses everywhere.
Champagne towers.
A live jazz trio.
A three-tier cake covered in gold leaf.
Every piece of the event had passed through me. I approved it, arranged it, and quietly paid for it because Mom said asking my brothers for financial help made her uncomfortable.
“They have families,” she said. “You’re good with money.”
Apparently, being good with money meant stepping
