The stepmother thought I was broke, so she treated me like her personal luggage and laughed, sending me to the economy class. Then the plane stopped wheeling, and the captain started looking for me.

We were flying from New York to Aspen for Mason’s engagement weekend.

Patricia planned everything like a royal event.

Private cottage.

Known

The chef.

Pictures of snowmobiles.

And a family announcement that Mason will soon join my father’s investment firm as a “future partner.”

I was only invited at the last minute.

Invited.

Undesirable.

Three days earlier, Patricia called and sighed:

“Your father insists that you come. Just please don’t make our lives difficult, talking about your little professional problems.”

My “professional problems” were two years after my mother’s death.

The years I sold my apartment.

I stopped going to family dinners.

And I stopped correcting people when they assumed I ran out of money.

During the briefing, Patricia received four first-class boarding passes from the agent.

Then she handed me mine.

31B.

The economy.

I looked at her.

“The economy?”

Mason smiled.

“Come on, Nora. It shapes the character.”