Finally Mark said, “Don’t turn this into some huge family crisis.”

I looked at him, Patricia, then Melissa.

Something inside me went very quiet.

I won’t.

Mark frowned, probably expecting me to yell.

Usually, I explained myself. That was one of my worst habits. I explained until everyone else became tired enough to declare the issue settled.

Not that night.

I crouched and gathered the pieces.

Patricia began telling me she needed the roast started by two.

No.

The room fell silent.

She blinked.

“What?”

I stood.

I said, “No.”

Then I carried the remains of my gown into the guest room and closed the door.

About an hour later, I sat in my car in the driveway. I didn’t go anywhere. The engine stayed off.

According to my phone, I sat there 39 minutes.

I wish I could say I spent them plotting clever revenge.

I didn’t.

I considered cancelling.

That’s the embarrassing truth.

I was tired—not physically. The other kind.

The exhaustion that comes from years of proving your time matters, too.

Maybe Mark was right. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe I could call the organizers and say I was sick.

Let someone else accept the award.

Then I looked through the windshield at our house. Patricia sat on my sofa drinking tea like nothing had happened.

At 10:43, my phone buzzed.

Sam Ortega, the event producer.

Please arrive by 4:30 tomorrow. Your presenter has requested a private meeting before the ceremony.

I typed back asking who was presenting.

The three little dots appeared, vanished, then returned.

Finally, she specifically asked us not to tell you.

I read that twice.

Then I noticed the narrow strip of blue fabric I’d unknowingly carried outside.

I tied it loosely around my wrist.

I didn’t know why. It simply felt better than leaving every piece on the floor.

By Saturday morning, Patricia had already decided the previous night was over.

That was one of her gifts. She could cause a disaster, sleep 8 hours, then wake refreshed enough to hand somebody else a grocery list.

I walked into the kitchen around 8:30 in sweatpants, carrying coffee. Patricia sat at the table with a yellow legal pad while Mark read something on his phone.

Melissa had gone home, which at least spared me another question about mailing the award.

Patricia pushed the paper toward me.