I lifted my hand to knock.

The door flew open before my knuckles touched wood.

Tyler stood there, filling the doorway with teenage confidence and indifference. Fourteen years old, already taller than me, already carrying himself like the world owed him something. His hoodie was a brand I could not afford. His sneakers were spotless, white soles untouched by real pavement. I knew exactly who paid for them. I also knew exactly who had signed the paperwork that made those purchases possible.

He looked me up and down.

“Oh,” he said flatly. “You came.”

Not hello. Not happy birthday to Grandma. Just that.

I stepped inside, and the house swallowed me whole.

The smell hit first. Artificial vanilla frosting mixed with cheap cologne and something fried. The dining room was crowded, loud, cluttered. Chairs scraped, glasses clinked. The table overflowed with half eaten cake, crumpled wrapping paper, opened gift boxes. My mother sat at the head, her posture proud and relaxed, one hand wrapped around a glass of wine as she laughed at something Tyler had said.