The House They Wanted

The slap echoed through the hotel hallway, sharp and final. My mother’s hand had moved so fast I barely registered it until the sting bloomed across my cheek. Behind her, my father gripped my arm hard enough to bruise, and my sister stood in the doorway with her arms crossed, wearing an expression of cold satisfaction.

“The house belongs to Bethany,” my father said, his voice carrying that tone of absolute authority I’d heard my entire life. “That’s final.”

I stood there in my wedding dress, surrounded by shocked guests with their phones out, and I started laughing. Not the hysterical kind—the genuine kind. Because they had no idea what they’d just done.

What they didn’t know was that the house they were demanding, the million-dollar property they’d just assaulted me over, wasn’t actually mine to give.

And the look on their faces when they found out would be worth every single year of being second best.

Growing up as Emma Morrison meant learning early that love in my family came with a hierarchy, and I wasn’t at the top of it. That position belonged to Bethany—three years older, blonde where I was brunette, effortlessly charming where I was quietly studious, and somehow always deserving of everything our parents had to give.

The favoritism started young and never really stopped. When Bethany wanted piano lessons at age seven, our parents enrolled her immediately with a teacher who’d trained at Juilliard. When I asked about violin lessons two years later, my father sat me down with a serious expression and explained that we needed to be realistic about household budgets. One instrument was enough.

For Bethany’s sixteenth birthday, our parents surprised her with a Honda Civic—silver with a sunroof, which she’d specifically requested. She cried happy tears while our mother recorded the whole thing for social media. For my sixteenth birthday, I received a card with a twenty-dollar bill inside and a note that said, “Sweet Sixteen! Love, Mom and Dad.” No cake. No party. Just acknowledgment that the day had occurred.

College applications brought the disparity into even sharper focus. Bethany wanted to study theater at a private liberal arts school with a prestigious drama program. Tuition was forty-five thousand dollars a year. Our parents wrote the checks without hesitation, attending her showcases and telling everyone they met about their daughter the actress.

When I expressed interest in architecture, my father pulled out actual spreadsheets. He walked me through the numbers with the clinical precision of someone delivering a terminal diagnosis. Four-year university tuition versus community college. Private school prestige versus state school practicality. The return on investment for creative careers versus professional ones.

“Architecture is wonderful, Emma,” he said, his tone suggesting he thought it was anything but. “But we need to be smart about this. Community college for your general requirements makes the most financial sense. You can transfer later if you really want to.”

I worked three jobs during those two years at community college—weekend breakfast shifts at a diner, evening tutoring sessions at the library, and late-night data entry for a medical billing company. I saved every possible dollar, applied for every scholarship I could find, and managed to transfer to a state university with a respected architecture program. I graduated with honors four years later, carrying student loan debt that would take me years to pay off, while Bethany moved back home after two years of theater school, her expensive degree unfinished, claiming the program “wasn’t what she’d expected.”

Our parents welcomed her back with open arms, converting my old bedroom—which I’d painted and decorated during high school—into a walk-in closet for Bethany’s ever-expanding wardrobe. My belongings were boxed up and moved to the basement without anyone asking if I might need them or want to retrieve anything.

Bethany worked sporadically at a boutique downtown, taking off weeks at a time when she didn’t feel like going in, spending her days creating elaborate social media content that she believed would eventually lead to influencer status. Our parents funded her lifestyle without question, covering her car insurance, her phone bill, her gym membership, and frequently slipping her cash for “emergencies” that seemed to occur with impressive frequency.

Meanwhile, I’d rented a small studio apartment near the architecture firm where I’d landed an entry-level position. I worked fifty-hour weeks, studied for my licensing exams at night, and slowly built a career through competence and persistence. Nobody funded my life. Nobody slipped me cash. Nobody seemed particularly interested in what I was building.

I met Derek Chen five years into my career, at a construction site where his family’s company was the contractor for one of my residential designs. I’d finally earned my architect’s license after years of grinding through the examination process, and I was beginning to take on more interesting projects. This particular house was a custom build for a tech entrepreneur who’d given me significant creative freedom—contemporary design with traditional elements, large windows to capture natural light, and an open floor plan that still maintained distinct spaces for living and entertaining.

Derek was the project manager his family had assigned to oversee construction. He was patient when I flagged issues, receptive to my design vision, and actually seemed interested when I explained why certain structural elements mattered aesthetically and not just functionally. After three months of professional interactions, he asked me to dinner. After six months of dating, I knew he was different from anyone I’d ever met.

But it wasn’t just Derek. It was his family.

Margaret and Thomas Chen treated me with a warmth I’d never experienced from my own parents. They asked about my work—not in the polite, surface-level way that people do when they don’t really care, but with genuine curiosity. They remembered details from previous conversations. When I mentioned a project I was excited about, Thomas would follow up weeks later asking how it went. When I talked about a difficult client, Margaret would offer advice drawn from her own experience running a business.

They listened when I spoke. They valued my opinions. They treated me like someone whose thoughts and feelings mattered.

It was disorienting and wonderful.

Six months into our relationship, Derek proposed during a private dinner at his parents’ house in the hills overlooking the city. The home was stunning—a custom build that Thomas’s company had constructed, with floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the city lights like a painting. Derek had set up a small table on the terrace, just the two of us under string lights, and he proposed with a speech about building a life together that made me cry into my wine.

I called my parents the next morning, still floating on happiness, expecting—hoping—for some version of excitement.

“That’s nice, honey,” my mother said, her tone suggesting I’d just told her I’d switched brands of toothpaste. “Listen, can I call you back? We’re helping Bethany look at wedding venues. She’s been sending us links all morning and we need to schedule tours before the good dates get booked.”

I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it, certain I’d misheard. “Wait. Wedding venues? Bethany’s engaged?”

“Oh, didn’t she tell you? Marcus proposed last month! It’s going to be the event of the season. We’ve already put deposits down at three different locations just to secure the dates while she decides. The decision is so hard—they’re all gorgeous.”

Marcus was Bethany’s boyfriend of eight months—a personal trainer with a decent Instagram following and an impressive collection of shirtless gym selfies. I’d met him maybe twice at family dinners, where he’d seemed pleasant enough but mostly scrolled through his phone while Bethany showed everyone her latest social media posts.

“Congratulations to her,” I managed, trying to keep the hurt out of my voice. “But Mom, I just told you that Derek proposed to me. We’re engaged.”

“Yes, and I said ‘that’s nice.’ What do you want, Emma? A parade?” Her tone sharpened with impatience. “People get engaged all the time. It’s not that unusual. Bethany’s wedding is going to require enormous coordination. She’s thinking four hundred guests, maybe more if Marcus’s influencer friends all commit. Your father and I are already overwhelmed with the logistics.”

The call ended shortly after, with my mother promising to call back later—a promise I knew she wouldn’t keep unless she needed something. I sat in my apartment, engagement ring catching the morning light, and felt the familiar hollow sensation of being an afterthought in my own family.

Derek’s parents, when we told them that evening, reacted exactly opposite. Margaret actually screamed—a joyful, uninhibited sound—and pulled me into a hug so tight I thought my ribs might crack. Thomas shook Derek’s hand and then pulled him into an embrace, his eyes suspiciously bright. They immediately started talking about wedding plans, asking what kind of ceremony I envisioned, what season I preferred, whether I’d thought about colors or flowers or venues.

“We’d love to host an engagement party,” Margaret said, already pulling out her phone to check her calendar. “Something intimate with close family and friends. Just to celebrate you two properly. Does next month work?”

I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. This was what it was supposed to feel like, I realized. This enthusiasm, this genuine happiness for someone else’s joy. This was what family should be.

The engagement party was beautiful—held at the Chen’s home with about forty guests, mostly Derek’s extended family and our close friends. Margaret had hired a caterer, decorated with elegant simplicity, and created a slideshow of photos from Derek’s childhood that made everyone laugh. When she reached the section with photos of Derek and me together, she’d included candid shots I didn’t even know she’d taken—us at a family barbecue, laughing at something Thomas said; us at a baseball game, my head on Derek’s shoulder; us in their kitchen, cooking dinner together while Margaret supervised.

“These are my favorite,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “Because this is when I knew Emma was truly part of our family. Not because Derek brought her around, but because she chose to stay.”

My parents hadn’t come to the engagement party. They’d sent regrets via a text message the day before, explaining that they had a conflict—they were attending a wine tasting event with Bethany and Marcus that had been planned for months. Never mind that my engagement party had been on the calendar for six weeks.

Planning my wedding became an exercise in managing expectations and processing disappointment. Every attempt to involve my parents hit a wall of excuses and disinterest. My father was busy with work. My mother had a headache. They were helping Bethany select her dress, which apparently required visiting designers in three different states and consulting with a stylist. The few times they did engage with my wedding plans, it was only to criticize.

“That venue seems awfully expensive for someone on a budget,” my father commented when I showed him photos of Willowbrook Gardens, a beautiful outdoor space with mature trees and a charming gazebo.

“Actually, it’s quite reasonable for the area,” I explained. “And Derek’s parents have offered to help with costs.”

His expression soured. “Taking handouts already? That’s embarrassing, Emma. You should be able to fund your own wedding.”

This from a man who had literally just told me the week before that he’d hired Bethany a professional wedding planner who’d worked with celebrities and reality TV stars. The planner’s retainer alone was more than my entire venue cost. The cognitive dissonance was suffocating.

I tried one more time to involve them, making one genuine, final attempt to bridge the gap. Six months before my wedding, I invited them to lunch at a nice restaurant downtown—neutral territory where maybe, just maybe, we could have an honest conversation about being included in my wedding plans.

I’d prepared a small binder with photos, color swatches, and a timeline of events. I thought if they could see how organized I was, how carefully I’d planned everything, they might want to be involved. I was still trying to earn their approval, still trying to prove I was worth their time and attention.

Bethany arrived twenty-three minutes late, carrying shopping bags from expensive stores and immediately launching into complaints about traffic and parking and how the downtown shops never had her size in stock. My parents followed shortly after, both looking exhausted before we’d even ordered.

“Thanks for coming,” I said, opening my binder with hands that trembled slightly despite my best efforts. “I wanted to show you what Derek and I have planned. The ceremony is at Willowbrook Gardens—here are some photos of the space. We’ve chosen this shade of sage green for the bridesmaid dresses, and I was hoping maybe you could—”

“Emma,” my mother interrupted without even glancing at the carefully curated photos I’d spent hours selecting. “Can we eat first? I’m absolutely starving. We’ve been running around all morning with Bethany looking at bridesmaid dress options.”

We ordered. I waited. I tried again.

“So, I was thinking about the rehearsal dinner. Traditionally it’s hosted by the groom’s family, but I thought maybe we could do something together—combine our families, make it a joint event. It could be really special.”

My father cut into his steak with aggressive precision, not looking up. “We’re a little tapped out right now, honey. Bethany’s wedding is costing significantly more than we anticipated. The photographer alone is fifteen thousand dollars.”

“I’m not asking for money,” I clarified, trying to keep my voice steady. “Just your involvement. Maybe you could give a toast, or help me choose the flowers for the church, or—”

“What good will it bring us?” Bethany said suddenly, looking up from her phone with an expression of genuine confusion. “Seriously, Emma. Your wedding is so low-key compared to what Marcus and I are planning. No offense, but it’s not exactly exciting to be involved in.”

The words landed like physical blows. I felt heat flooding my face.

“Low-key?” I repeated. “We have two hundred guests confirmed. We’re having it at a beautiful venue with a full dinner reception. How is that low-key?”

“Exactly. Two hundred. We’re expecting four hundred, maybe five hundred if all of Marcus’s influencer network commits. Plus we’re doing destination engagement photos in Santorini next month—Mom and Dad are coming with us to help coordinate with the photographer. It’s going to be incredible.”

My mother reached over to pat Bethany’s hand with obvious pride. “The photographer she chose has worked with major influencers. His Instagram following is over three hundred thousand people. This could really elevate Bethany’s brand.”

“I’m happy for you, Bethany,” I said, and I genuinely tried to mean it. “But right now I’m talking about my wedding. It’s in three months and I would really appreciate your support. Any support. Even just showing up and pretending to care would be something.”

“Forget about it, Emma,” my father said, his tone carrying that familiar note of finality that meant the discussion was over. “We’re still helping your sister. She needs us right now. Her wedding is the priority. You’ve got Derek’s family falling all over themselves to help you. You’ll be fine without us.”

The rest of the lunch was torture. They spent the next forty-five minutes discussing Bethany’s color scheme in exhaustive detail—blush pink and champagne gold with rose-gold metallic accents. Seven bridesmaids, each wearing custom dresses. A videographer who’d filmed actual music videos for signed artists. A cake designer who’d appeared on a Netflix competition show. The destination bachelorette party in Miami that my parents were funding.

I picked at my salmon and tried to remember why I’d thought this lunch would be different. Why I’d believed that my wedding—my one wedding—might matter enough for them to set aside their obsession with Bethany for even a few hours.

When the check came, my father grabbed it without asking if I wanted to split it, making a big show of paying for the meal. As if buying me lunch somehow compensated for everything else.

Back in my car, I sat in the parking structure for twenty minutes and cried. Not delicate, pretty crying—ugly, gasping sobs that made my chest hurt and my eyes swell. I cried for the little girl who’d never gotten piano lessons. I cried for the teenager who’d been given a twenty-dollar bill instead of a car. I cried for the college student who’d worked three jobs while her sister’s tuition was paid without question. And I cried for the bride who couldn’t get her own parents to care about her wedding.

Eventually, I pulled myself together enough to drive. I called Derek from the parking lot, my voice still thick with tears.

“Hey, how’d lunch go?” His tone was hopeful, because Derek was fundamentally optimistic and kind and wanted to believe the best in people.

“About as well as expected,” I managed. “Which is to say, terrible.”

“Come over tonight. My parents want to talk to us about something anyway.”

That evening at the Chen house, I was still raw from lunch. The rejection felt like a fresh wound, still bleeding. Margaret took one look at my face and pulled me into a wordless hug, asking no questions, demanding no explanations. She just held me while I tried not to start crying again.

Over tea in their beautiful living room—the one with the floor-to-ceiling windows and comfortable furniture that actually invited you to sit and stay—Thomas cleared his throat in that way that meant he had something important to say.

“Emma, Derek told us about lunch with your family. We want you to know that you’re not alone in this. Margaret and I have discussed it extensively, and we’d like to fully fund your wedding. Whatever you want, however you envision it. This is your day, yours and Derek’s, and you both deserve to have it be perfect.”

The tears I’d been holding back broke free. Margaret held me while I sobbed, all the disappointment and hurt pouring out in ugly, gasping waves.

“There’s something else,” Derek said softly when I’d finally calmed enough to breathe normally. He exchanged a glance with his parents, and they both nodded. “My parents have been planning to give us a house as a wedding gift. They wanted it to be a surprise, but given everything you’re dealing with, we thought you should know now. You’re not just marrying me, Emma. You’re gaining a family who sees your worth.”

I couldn’t process it at first. A house. Not help with a down payment, not a contribution toward closing costs—an actual house.

“The property is in Meadowbrook Hills,” Thomas explained. “We built it as a showcase home for the company—custom construction, high-end finishes. Four bedrooms, three and a half baths. We’d hoped one of our children would eventually want to live there. Derek’s brother has his own place, and you two are starting your life together. It feels right that it should be yours.”

I’d driven past that house during its construction. I’d actually stopped once to admire the architecture, never imagining I’d someday live there. The market value was easily over a million dollars—possibly closer to 1.5 million given the neighborhood and the custom quality.

“We can’t accept this,” I protested weakly, though I was already mentally placing furniture in that gorgeous living room I’d glimpsed through the windows.

“You can and you will,” Margaret said firmly, brooking no argument. “Thomas built that house specifically hoping one of our children would live there. You’re our daughter now, Emma. This is what families do—they support each other, they celebrate each other, and they make sure their children have a good foundation to build their lives on.”

The wedding planning transformed after that conversation. With the Chen family’s support—both emotional and financial—I was able to create the ceremony I’d always envisioned. I booked Willowbrook Gardens for the ceremony. I chose a dress from a boutique Margaret recommended—elegant A-line with delicate lace sleeves that made me feel beautiful. The florist created arrangements of white roses and sage eucalyptus that looked like something from a magazine. I hired a string quartet for the ceremony and a band for the reception. The reception would be at the historic Grand View Hotel, with a menu I’d personally selected after three tasting sessions.

Margaret insisted on accompanying me to every appointment, filling the role my mother should have played. At the final dress fitting, when I stepped out of the dressing room in the altered gown that fit perfectly, Margaret’s eyes filled with tears.

“You look absolutely beautiful, sweetheart. Derek is going to lose his mind when he sees you walking down that aisle.”

The seamstress smiled, clearly assuming Margaret was my mother. Neither of us corrected her. When we left the boutique, Margaret linked her arm through mine.

“Thank you for letting me be part of this,” she said quietly. “I know I’m not your mother, but—”

“You’ve been more of a mother to me in the last year than mine has been in my entire life,” I interrupted. “Thank you for being here. For caring. For making me feel like I matter.”

We stopped for coffee after, and Margaret pulled out a small velvet box from her purse.

“This belonged to Thomas’s grandmother. She brought it with her when she immigrated from China—it was one of the few precious things she managed to carry. It’s been passed down through the family, and we would be honored if you wore it on your wedding day.”

Inside was a delicate pearl bracelet with intricate jade accents. The craftsmanship was extraordinary—clearly vintage, clearly valuable, clearly precious.

“Margaret, I can’t. This is a family heirloom. What if something happens to it?”

“You are family,” she said firmly. “This is exactly what it’s meant for—to be worn and treasured by the women in our family. Please, Emma. Let me do this.”

I wore that bracelet every day leading up to the wedding, touching it whenever doubt crept in, whenever I questioned my worth or my decisions. It became a talisman—proof that I was valued, that I belonged somewhere.

Meanwhile, Bethany’s wedding plans escalated to increasingly absurd levels. She created a dedicated Instagram account called @BethysBigDay where she posted daily updates about every minute detail. The engagement photos from Santorini were so heavily edited she looked like a completely different person—her skin impossibly smooth, her body dramatically thinned, her features altered to match current beauty standards. She posted the photos with captions about authenticity and natural beauty, apparently missing the irony.

Her wedding registry appeared on three different websites, each one featuring items that made my jaw drop. Luxury bedding sets that cost eight hundred dollars. Designer cookware that ran into the thousands. Original artwork from galleries. An espresso machine that cost more than my car payment. Cashmere throw blankets. A KitchenAid mixer in rose gold. Crystal stemware. Everything screamed “expensive” and “look at what I deserve.”

My mother called three weeks before my wedding—the first time she’d reached out in almost three months.

“Emma, honey, I need to ask you something.”

I already knew this wouldn’t be good. “What is it, Mom?”

“Your sister’s wedding registry isn’t getting much traction. People keep commenting that the items are too expensive, which is just ridiculous. They’re investment pieces. Anyway, I was wondering if you could share her registry on your social media? Maybe your friends would be more generous. Help her out a bit.”

I stared at my phone in disbelief. “Mom. My wedding is in three weeks. I’m kind of focused on that right now.”

“Yes, but you don’t really need gifts, do you? Derek’s family is taking care of everything. Bethany and Marcus are starting completely from scratch. They need the support more than you do.”

“They need support, but I don’t. Is that what you’re actually saying?”

“Don’t twist my words, Emma. I’m just asking for a simple favor. You’re acting like I’ve asked you to donate a kidney. It’s just a few social media posts.”

“Tell me one thing—one single thing—that you’ve done for my wedding, Mom.”

The silence stretched between us, filled only by the sound of the television in the background playing one of Bethany’s reality shows.

“We’re coming to the wedding,” my mother finally said, her tone defensive. “We RSVP’d yes. We’re your parents. Our presence should be enough.”

I hung up without responding and immediately blocked the conversation from my mind. There was no point engaging. She would never see the problem, never acknowledge the disparity in how she treated her daughters.

The rehearsal dinner happened two nights before the wedding. The Chens had reserved a private room at an upscale Italian restaurant, with about forty guests attending—close family, the wedding party, and out-of-town relatives who’d traveled for the occasion. They’d flown in family from California, Thomas’s brother from Vancouver, and Margaret’s college roommate from Boston. The room was decorated beautifully, with photos of Derek and me displayed on easels throughout the space—candid shots from the past year that told the story of our relationship.

My parents arrived thirty-seven minutes late, walking in during the appetizer course. They brought Bethany and Marcus with them, despite neither being in the wedding party or technically invited to the rehearsal dinner. Margaret handled it with her characteristic grace, immediately asking the restaurant staff to add two more place settings, but I saw the brief flash of annoyance in her eyes.

Bethany spent the entire dinner on her phone, periodically turning it around to show people at the table various photos from her Santorini engagement shoot.

“See this one? The photographer said it could easily be in Vogue or Martha Stewart Weddings. Marcus and I are thinking about submitting it to some major publications. You know, to help build our brand as a couple.”

Marcus, to his credit, looked uncomfortable. He’d been relatively quiet all evening, nursing a single beer and making polite small talk with Derek’s college friends seated nearby. He seemed like a genuinely nice guy who’d gotten caught up in Bethany’s influencer aspirations and didn’t quite know how to extract himself.

When it came time for toasts, Thomas stood and spoke beautifully about welcoming me into their family, about how he’d watched Derek fall in love with someone who challenged him and supported him in equal measure. Derek’s brother told funny stories about Derek’s childhood mishaps. My maid of honor Jessica—my best friend since freshman orientation at the university—talked about watching me work three jobs, earn my degree, and build a career through sheer determination, and how she’d never seen me as happy as I’d been since meeting Derek.

My father didn’t offer a toast. He didn’t stand, didn’t raise his glass, didn’t acknowledge the moment at all. He simply sat there checking his watch periodically and whispering to my mother, presumably about when they could leave without causing a scene.

After dinner, as people lingered over coffee and dessert, my father pulled me aside in the restaurant’s marble-floored foyer.

“This is all very fancy,” he said, looking around at the crystal chandelier and expensive artwork with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “The Chens certainly like to show off their money.”

“They’re generous people who wanted to celebrate Derek and me properly.”

“Right, right. Very generous.” He paused. “Listen, about the wedding tomorrow—the seating arrangements. Are you putting us at a head table?”

“There is no head table, Dad. Just a sweetheart table for Derek and me. You’re at table four with Mom, Bethany, and Marcus.”

His face flushed red. “Table four? We’re your parents, Emma. We should be more prominently placed. What will people think?”

“Table four is literally twenty feet from the sweetheart table. It has an excellent view of everything. It’s a good table.”

“It’s not the statement we deserve. People will notice. They’ll wonder why the bride’s parents are buried in the middle of the room with random guests.”

“Then maybe you should have acted like the bride’s parents for the past eight months instead of treating my wedding like an inconvenience. Good night, Dad.”

I walked away before he could respond, before the anger building in my chest could explode into something I’d regret. Derek was waiting by the entrance, and he wrapped his arm around my waist without saying anything.

“You okay?”

“I will be. One more day of this and then we’re married and on a plane to Italy for two weeks.”

The honeymoon was yet another gift from Margaret and Thomas—two weeks in Tuscany, staying at a villa they’d rented for us. They’d insisted that young couples should start their marriage with joy and rest, not stress about expenses or return to work immediately. The villa had a pool, a vineyard view, and was staffed with a cook who’d prepare our meals. It sounded like something from a dream.

That night, back at my apartment for the last time as an unmarried woman, Jessica helped me pack my overnight bag for the hotel where Derek and I would stay after the reception.

“Your in-laws are genuinely incredible,” she said, carefully folding my going-away outfit. “I’ve met plenty of nice families, but the Chens are on another level entirely. They’re like… what families should be.”

“I keep waiting for the catch,” I admitted. “For them to reveal some horrible expectation or condition attached to all this generosity.”

“Some people are just genuinely good, Emma. And you deserve this. You’ve dealt with your family’s bullshit your entire life. The universe is finally balancing the scales.”

The wedding day arrived with perfect weather—sunny, seventy-five degrees, with a light breeze that kept it from being too warm. Willowbrook Gardens looked like something from a fairy tale, all the trees in full bloom. I got ready at the hotel with Jessica and my other bridesmaids, Margaret popping in periodically to check on me and help with last-minute adjustments.

When I walked down the aisle toward Derek, I saw him crying before I was halfway there. I saw Margaret and Thomas in the front row, beaming with pride. And I saw my parents six rows back, their expressions neutral, looking like they were attending a pleasant but not particularly exciting community event.

The ceremony was beautiful. The reception was everything I’d hoped for—delicious food, wonderful music, guests who genuinely seemed happy to celebrate with us. During the cocktail hour, before dinner service began, my family approached our sweetheart table.

“This is quite a venue,” my father said, looking around the Grand View Hotel’s ballroom with its soaring ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and marble floors. “Must have cost a fortune.”

“The Chens were very generous,” I replied, feeling Derek’s hand find mine under the table.

“We should see this house everyone’s talking about,” Bethany said abruptly, her tone carrying that familiar demanding edge I’d heard my entire life. “Before dinner starts. You’ve got time.”

Derek and I exchanged glances. This felt like a terrible idea, but some masochistic part of me wanted them to see it. Wanted them to understand, finally, what they’d dismissed and devalued.

“Perhaps another time,” Derek said smoothly. “Today’s pretty packed with wedding events.”

“No, I think now works,” Bethany pressed, her voice taking on that insistent quality that had always gotten her what she wanted. “You said it’s only fifteen minutes away. We have ninety minutes before dinner service. Plenty of time.”

Against every instinct screaming at me to refuse, I agreed. We arranged for a car service to take my parents, Bethany, Marcus, Derek, and me to Meadowbrook Hills. The driver navigated the familiar roads while Bethany stared out the window, her jaw getting progressively tighter as the neighborhoods got nicer.

When we pulled up to the house, the late afternoon light hit it perfectly. The landscaping was mature and lush. The architecture—which I’d admired during construction—was a perfect blend of traditional and contemporary elements. Thomas’s company had done exceptional work. The driveway was lined with mature oak trees creating a natural canopy. The exterior combined stone and cedar with large windows that I knew flooded the interior with natural light.

Bethany’s forced smile completely vanished as she stared at the house. Her expression shifted to something between shock and fury.

“How big is this place?” Marcus asked, genuinely awed. He’d been quiet during the drive but even he couldn’t hide his reaction.

“About four thousand square feet,” Derek answered. “Not including the finished basement.”

My father had gone very still, studying the house with an intensity I recognized—his mental calculator adding up property values, comparing this to what he’d spent on Bethany over the years, realizing perhaps for the first time the magnitude of what I’d been given.

“This must be worth over a million dollars,” he said quietly.

“Closer to 1.8 million, actually,” I confirmed. “Meadowbrook Hills has appreciated significantly. The school district is top-rated, and the nature preserve behind the property means no neighbors on one side. Custom builds with this level of finish command premium prices in this market.”

My mother walked the perimeter while we were still outside, peering through windows with an intensity that made me uncomfortable.

“How many bedrooms?”

“Four bedrooms, three and a half baths. Master suite upstairs with a spa bathroom. Three additional bedrooms on the second floor. Main level has the kitchen, living spaces, dining room, office, and powder room.”

“Three guest rooms,” Bethany said, and something in her voice made my skin prickle. “That’s excessive for just two people.”

“We’re planning to have children eventually,” Derek said, his hand finding mine. “And we like having space when family visits.”

“Right. Family.”

The way she said it felt dangerous.

We went inside and I gave them the tour, already regretting this decision. The entryway featured a custom chandelier Margaret had helped me select—modern glass and brass that caught the light beautifully. The living room had vaulted ceilings with exposed beams and a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace. The kitchen was my favorite room—white shaker cabinets with brass hardware, marble countertops, a six-burner professional gas range, and the massive island I’d dreamed about for years.

“This island is bigger than my entire kitchen,” Marcus observed, running his hand along the smooth marble with something like wonder in his voice.

“Emma designed most of the interior details,” Derek said proudly. “She knew exactly what she wanted, and my dad’s construction team made it happen.”

Bethany opened every cabinet, inspected the walk-in pantry, even checked the appliance model numbers like she was conducting a home inspection.

“The refrigerator is that expensive panel-ready kind. Those cost like ten thousand dollars.”

“It came with the house,” I said, which was true. Thomas had fully appointed the kitchen as part of the wedding gift.

Upstairs, the master bedroom was flooded with natural light from oversized windows overlooking the preserve. The en suite bathroom featured a deep soaking tub, a frameless glass shower with multiple shower heads, and dual vanities with marble countertops. The walk-in closet was already organized with our belongings, though we still had boxes to unpack.

“There’s even a private balcony off the master,” I said, opening the French doors to show them the intimate space where I’d already imagined drinking morning coffee.

My mother stepped onto the balcony, surveyed the view of mature trees and glimpses of the preserve beyond, then turned back to me with an expression I couldn’t decipher.