For once, she sounded uncertain around me.
Then she rushed to fill the silence.
‘I know things were weird around your wedding, but that was months ago.
I don’t want old stuff affecting this.’
Old stuff.
I looked at Olivia.
She raised one eyebrow.
‘I haven’t responded yet,’ I said.
Madison exhaled sharply.
‘Why wouldn’t you come?’
The question was so sincere that for a moment I couldn’t answer.
She genuinely seemed confused.
I wondered if she’d forgotten the arguments, the beach trip, the empty chair, the way she’d told relatives I was selfish for refusing to move my wedding.
Maybe forgetting was easier when you weren’t the person who had been hurt.
‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t,’ I replied.
‘I said I haven’t responded yet.’
‘Okay, but you’re my brother.’
I almost repeated her old sentence right then.
I didn’t.
Instead, I told her I would send my response soon.
When the call ended, Olivia sat across from me.
‘What do you want to do?’
That was why I loved her.
She didn’t tell me what revenge would feel best.
She didn’t remind me of everything Madison had done.
She simply asked what I wanted.
I looked again at the old message.
Then I thought about the months before our wedding.
My mother’s constant calls.
Madison accusing me of selfishness.
Relatives repeating a distorted version of the story.
My father refusing to take a position.
The realization that I had spent much of my life accommodating everyone because resistance was always punished with guilt.
If I attended Madison’s wedding simply because everyone demanded it, I would be stepping straight back into that role.
So I made my decision.
I wrote that Olivia and I would not be attending.
Then, beneath it, I added one sentence:
‘I’m not rearranging my life around your wedding.
If you love me, you’ll understand.’
The exact words Madison had used with me.
I took a photograph of the response card before sealing it inside the envelope.
Not because I planned to post it or embarrass her.
I had learned enough about my family to know that evidence mattered whenever the story started changing.
Three days after I mailed it, Madison called.
She didn’t say hello.
‘Are you serious?’
‘I assume you got my response.’
‘You actually wrote that?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re doing this to punish me.’
There it was.
I leaned against the kitchen counter.
‘Those were your words, Madison.’
‘I know what I said.’
‘Then why are they cruel now?’
She went quiet.
