I stood in the middle of a marble-floored ballroom in downtown Chicago, clutching a clipboard that felt heavier than a lead weight. My stepmother, Diane, was sweeping across the room with a silk scarf trailing behind her, pointing at chandeliers and demanding more lilies. She had spent the last four months turning what should have been a small, intimate gathering into a gala that felt like it belonged in a bridal magazine. I didn’t even recognize the person in the mirror anymore, mostly because Diane had already picked out a dress that cost more than my first car.

The air in the venue was cold, smelling of expensive floor wax and old money, and I felt like a stranger in my own life. Every time I tried to suggest a simple taco truck or a playlist of our favorite indie songs, Diane would give me that look—the one that suggested I was a toddler trying to finger-paint on a masterpiece. She had taken over the guest list, the seating chart, and even the flavor of the cake, which was apparently going to be “champagne-infused lavender.” I didn’t even like lavender; it made me sneeze.