Friday came.

And while a quiet, precise legal machine turned in a county office in Colorado, Luca and Wendy and Stephanie were still deep in their victory lap in South Beach, posting a steady stream of photographs to social media — champagne toasts, luxury shopping bags, a sunset dinner — all of it charged, they believed, to my secondary travel card.

They did not know that I had canceled that card at nine o’clock that morning.

I want to be honest that I felt something, watching those photos come in through the day — not rage, exactly, but a kind of clarified sadness at the sheer, oblivious confidence of it.