It was Christmas at my house in Illinois.

She’d arrived completely alone. Greg had stayed behind in Alaska because, according to Sarah, “year-end financial audits are absolute chaos,” and his wealth management firm simply couldn’t spare him.

Greg dealt in luxury portfolios, expensive tailored suits, and corporate jargon designed to make ordinary people feel stupid.

I had never liked him. God knows I tried. I smiled warmly at their rehearsal dinner. I danced at their wedding. I invited him into my home and pretended not to notice how he appraised every single room he entered, as if every space and every person existed solely to be assessed for their net worth.

There was a slick, reptilian carefulness to him. He had the kind of superficial charm that never actually warms a room; it only claims ownership of it.

And Sarah—my bright, stubborn, big-hearted girl who loved teaching fifth grade—had grown progressively quieter year by year after she married him. She developed a heartbreaking habit of checking herself before she spoke, glancing at his face as if every sentence she uttered required his silent permission.