On paper, I’m the “independent one.” At 29, I’m a regional director for a luxury hotel group, overseeing a dozen properties across four states. I paid my way through college, bought my own car, furnished my own apartment. My parents have never seen a single hotel I run. When I told them about my last promotion, my mom said, “That’s nice, honey. Did you hear Brooke got engaged?”

Brooke is 26, blonde, petite, a social-media-perfect “Nashville girl” who works in content for a boutique and posts ring selfies and latte art. My parents co-signed her condo, bought her car, funded her wardrobe. When she chose the Fontaine for a spring wedding, they called me with trembling voices: “You’ve always been so capable, Evelyn. We’d never ask if we had any other choice. You understand, right?”