Every year, I poured myself into the perfect Fourth of July—scrubbing, decorating, cooking, ironing. My husband Joel would call it “our party,” but the only thing we shared was the hosting credit. He hated crowds and bleach and “fussing too much.” But he loved playing the hero when the compliments rolled in.

“This year’s different,” he said. “Miles is coming!” His older brother, the successful one. The one who actually stayed in tech. Joel insisted we go all out. And I did—right down to star-shaped apples in the sangria. I painted banners, arranged rosemary napkins, and scrubbed his tacky flag apron until the red stripes bled pink.

Joel’s contribution? Two racks of ribs. He marinated them and bragged like he’d catered the whole event. Then, during the party, he raised his glass and declared the ribs were “why people came.” Laughter followed. My smile froze. Something inside me quietly cracked. I slipped into the bathroom and cried into the embroidered towel I’d ironed the night before.

And then—chaos. Flames erupted from the grill. Joel had soaked hot coals with lighter fluid, setting off an inferno that scorched the tarp, melted the table, and torched his apron. Miles caught it all on video. In the aftermath, the only food left standing was mine. People finally noticed. Some even thanked me. Rhea, Miles’s wife, pulled me aside and said, “He’s lucky to have you.” I smiled. “Sometimes luck runs out.”

Joel never apologized—not that day, not the next. A week later, he suggested someone else host next year. I said yes. This year, I’ll watch fireworks alone by the lake, sipping sangria, not burning myself out for someone else’s spotlight. And when the sky explodes with color, I’ll know: I finally chose myself.