I believed, with the kind of certainty that only love can give you, that I was stepping into one of the happiest milestones of my life. Brandon had been excited for weeks about his family’s annual “Family Day,” a tradition he spoke about with pride and nostalgia. He described it as loud, extravagant, and full of generosity, the one day each year when everyone gathered not just to eat and talk, but to show affection through gifts that bordered on absurdly lavish.
Cars were revealed with bows, watches worth more than my student loans were exchanged casually, and last year, according to Brandon, his cousin had been handed the deed to a small rental property like it was a novelty mug. I was nervous, yes, but also hopeful. I wanted to belong. I wanted to be seen as more than just the girlfriend who hadn’t yet fully merged into the family mythology. So for three months, I saved every spare dollar I could. I skipped lunches out, canceled streaming subscriptions, picked up extra shifts, and sold a few personal items online.
