Na przyjęciu zaręczynowym mojej siostry, moja rodzina wyśmiewała mojego „fałszywego” narzeczonego. Milczałam, aż przyleciał prywatnym helikopterem, rozdał prezenty i nazwał mnie swoją uroczą żoną.

Trzy miesiące temu poznałem kogoś podczas wyprawy badawczej na Karaiby. Nazywał się Alexander i finansował projekty ochrony środowiska morskiego w tym regionie. Spędziliśmy razem dwa tygodnie, rozmawiając do późna w nocy o ochronie oceanów, jedząc posiłki w małych nadmorskich restauracjach i oglądając zachody słońca z jego jachtu. Po zakończeniu wyprawy pocałował mnie na pożegnanie i powiedział, że wkrótce się zobaczymy.

Since then, we’d exchanged messages, video calls when his schedule allowed, and he’d visited me twice in Charleston. But we’d never discussed labels or the future. We simply existed in this strange, wonderful space where I felt more understood than I ever had in my life.

“He’s in environmental work,” I said carefully. “He invests in conservation projects.”

My mother snorted. “So he’s unemployed. That tracks.”

“No, Mom. That’s not what I said.”

“A trust fund baby playing activist,” Bradley interjected with a smirk. “How progressive of you, Victoria.”

I felt tears burning behind my eyes but refused to let them fall. This was exactly why I’d stopped coming to family events. Every holiday, every birthday, every celebration turned into an opportunity for them to remind me that I wasn’t good enough, that I’d chosen wrong, that I was a failure.

“He’s actually quite successful,” I said, hating the defensive note in my voice. “He’s just private about his work.”

“Because he doesn’t exist,” Olivia sang out, and several guests chuckled.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, seeing Alexander’s name on the screen.

Running late, traffic, be there in 20 minutes. Love you.

My heart squeezed at those last two words. He’d started saying them a week ago, and every time it felt like a small miracle.

“Let me guess,” my father said, noticing my phone. “He’s cancelling.”

“He’s twenty minutes away,” I replied, my voice barely audible.

“Sure he is,” my mother said, exchanging glances with my aunt Patricia, who’d flown in from Atlanta for the occasion. “Victoria, sweetheart, it’s okay to be alone. You don’t have to invent a relationship to make yourself feel better about your choices.”

“I’m not inventing anything.”

“Then where’s the ring?” Olivia demanded, grabbing my left hand and displaying it to the crowd. “You said you were engaged, but there’s no ring, because there’s no fiancé.”

I pulled my hand back, my cheeks burning.

“I never said I was engaged. You all just assumed.”

“Because you let us,” my mother interrupted. “You let us believe you’d finally found someone because you knew we’d pity you otherwise. And here we are, pitying you anyway because you got caught in your own lie.”

The words hit like physical blows. I looked around the garden, seeing the mixture of amusement and secondhand embarrassment on the faces of strangers and distant relatives. The fairy lights strung between trees that would look magical at dusk now seemed to mock me, promising a celebration I’d never be part of.

“I think I should go,” I whispered.

“No, stay,” Olivia said quickly, her voice saccharine and sweet. “I want to meet this mysterious fiancé. Unless you’re admitting there isn’t one.”

I checked my phone again. Fifteen minutes. I could endure fifteen more minutes of this torture. Alexander was real. He was coming. He’d meet my horrible family. And then I’d never have to see them again. I’d already decided, standing here in this garden full of people who should love me but only seemed capable of cruelty, that this was the last time.

After today, I was done.

“I’ll wait,” I said quietly.

My mother sighed heavily. “Victoria, this is just sad. You’re making this worse for yourself.”

But I held my ground, checking the time on my phone every few seconds, willing Alexander to arrive and prove them all wrong.

The party continued around me, but I felt like I was standing in a bubble of isolation. Olivia had moved on to showing off her wedding venue photos on her phone to a cluster of admirers, occasionally glancing my way to make sure I was still there, still suffering. My mother had cornered me by the drink table, continuing her assessment of my life choices.

“You know, when you were younger, I had such hopes for you,” she said, refilling her wine glass. “You were so bright, so full of potential. And then you went off to study fish and threw it all away.”

“I have a doctorate in marine biology, Mom. I didn’t throw anything away.”

“A doctorate that pays how much? Forty thousand a year? Fifty if you’re lucky?” She shook her head. “Meanwhile, Olivia is making six figures at her firm, marrying a man who makes even more. She’s building a life. You’re just floating.”

The irony of using the word floating about someone who spent half her life underwater wasn’t lost on me, but I didn’t bother pointing it out. My mother had never understood my work. To her, success was measured in salary and social status, not in published research or conservation efforts.

“I like my work,” I said simply.