I paid for her lavish wedding.

I helped with the enormous down payment on their oversized house.

I covered Alice’s expensive private school tuition and wrote checks for their constant emergencies without ever asking a single question.

I’d done it all, pathetically grateful for any crumb of attention they deigned to give me, thankful whenever they remembered to include me in holidays or family photos.

I told myself it was normal—that adult children have busy lives, that I shouldn’t expect too much.

And now this.