My stepbrother Nolan has always had a talent for stealing the spotlight. He broke his arm during my high school graduation photos. He scheduled his dog’s final vet appointment on my birthday. He even chose to get married on the anniversary of my mother’s death, knowing how painful that day was for me. Each time, I swallowed the hurt, telling myself it wasn’t worth the drama. But when Caleb and I got engaged, I wanted — for once — a moment that was ours.

We organized a small, intimate dinner with close friends and family. It felt magical — warmth, laughter, clinking glasses. Then Nolan and his wife showed up uninvited. Before I could even process it, he stood up, raised his glass, and shouted, “IT’S A BOY!” The restaurant erupted with cheers. Suddenly, the room felt like a gender-reveal party — except we hadn’t planned one, and it definitely wasn’t ours. He ordered rounds of drinks, appetizers, balloons, the works — all while we watched quietly from our own celebration-turned-spectator seats.

Two hours later, the waiter brought the bill. Over $800 — mostly for their celebration. My fiancé squeezed my hand, trying to stay calm. Nolan slapped my back and joked, “Thanks for hosting, sis! Perfect timing for a surprise announcement, right?” Something inside me snapped. I stood, calmly picked up the bill, and said loudly, “Actually, this one’s yours. Consider it our engagement gift to you — the gift of finally paying for your own event.” The room went silent. Nolan sputtered, but the waiter took the check straight to his table.

We left without looking back. In the car, I finally breathed. My phone blew up later — his wife calling me selfish, my stepdad insisting “family shares moments.” But my mother always told me: sometimes peace means letting go of people who only take. So Caleb and I are planning our wedding — and this time, Nolan won’t be there to ruin it. Not again. Not ever.