When my fiancé invited me to his wealthy family’s annual “Family Day,” I was thrilled. As a hairstylist, I’d always felt like an outsider around them, but this felt like my chance to truly belong. Brandon mentioned they’d exchange “thoughtful” gifts—last year included a trip to Italy and a motorcycle. So, I saved for months to buy him something he’d always wanted: a PlayStation 5.

At their lake house, dressed to impress, I clutched the gift I’d sacrificed for. The evening began with Brandon giving lavish gifts to his family—his old condo, his luxury car, a Cartier ring. Then came my turn. With all eyes on me, he handed me a tiny box. Inside? Artisan toothpicks. “For your work,” he said, as laughter echoed around the table. His sister even filmed it for the family group chat.

I locked myself in the bathroom, sobbing. Not because of the gift, but because of how small they made me feel. When Brandon tried to brush it off as “just a prank,” something snapped. I walked back in, tore him and his sister down with words sharper than any scissors I’d ever held—and dropped the PS5 at his feet. “I thought you were worth it,” I said. “You’re not.”

The next day, he came with a real gift and weak excuses. His mother scolded me for “ruining Family Day.” But sitting with my mom later, sipping tea and watching the yard where I used to dream of love, I realized I hadn’t ruined anything—I’d saved myself. And I wasn’t angry anymore. Just done.