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More importantly to me, he was the only person in our extended family who consistently asked about my life.
My work.
My home.
Anything that wasn’t Brooke.
He reached my parents first, hugging my father with one arm, kissing my mother’s cheek, and congratulating them warmly.
“Look at you two,” he said, stepping back. “Parents of the bride. Patricia, you’re glowing.”
“It’s the lighting,” my mother said modestly, though she clearly enjoyed the compliment. “And maybe the champagne.”
James laughed. “Always humble.”
Then he turned to Brooke, his expression softening.
“There’s the star of the evening.”
Brooke practically sparkled. “Uncle James,” she said, leaning in to hug him while carefully angling her ring hand so he could see the diamond. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”
“For my favorite niece’s engagement party?” he teased. “I would’ve chartered a plane if I had to.”
She giggled, and my mother beamed.
Then James’s eyes moved past them, scanning the room like he knew someone else was missing. His gaze found me by the bar, and his whole face brightened in a way it hadn’t for anyone else.
“Sophia,” he said warmly. “God, it’s good to see you.”
He crossed the space in three strides, leaving his suitcase near my father, and pulled me into a strong, unhurried hug. The scent of airport, cologne, and familiarity surrounded me.
“You look incredible,” he said, stepping back and holding me at arm’s length to look at me properly. “Peace suits you. How’s life in that one-point-five-million-dollar house you bought? Is the neighborhood everything you hoped it would be?”
He said it casually, like he was asking about my commute.
The room did not receive it casually.
The conversations around us dropped so suddenly that the end of the DJ’s background music sounded strangely loud. Guests nearby went quiet, their heads tilting slightly in that subtle way people do when they want to hear everything without admitting they are listening.
Across the circle, Brooke froze mid-gesture while describing Michael’s proposal. The diamond stopped in the air, flashing once before going still.
My mother’s champagne glass paused halfway to her mouth. My father, who had been talking about Michael’s promotion prospects, went silent in the middle of a sentence. The color drained from his face.
“What house?” he asked quietly, his voice strained. “James, what house?”
I took a slow sip of wine. Suddenly it tasted richer than before. I swallowed, then turned my attention fully toward my family.
Eight years, I thought.
Eight years of being treated like an afterthought. Eight years of watching every conversation swing back to Brooke. Eight years of “Oh, right, Sophia” spoken like I was a forgotten detail. Eight years of my career updates receiving polite nods before everyone returned to whatever Brooke was posting online.
I hadn’t planned this moment.
But now that it was here, something inside me settled into place.
“The house on Sterling Heights,” James said, still unaware of the disaster he had just walked into. He accepted a champagne flute from a passing server as though this was ordinary conversation. “The one Sophia bought in 2016. Gorgeous craftsman home. That mountain view is incredible. I stayed there last time I was in town.”
For a second, the air around us seemed to tighten.
Brooke spoke first, disbelief sharpening her voice.
“Sophia doesn’t own a house,” she said with a small laugh. “She rents that apartment near the university. You know, the one with the terrible parking?”
“I rented that apartment,” I corrected calmly. “For about two years during my PhD program. Then I bought the house on Sterling Heights. That was eight years ago.”
I watched the words land.