I didn’t say anything for a few days. I went to work, focused on my clients, tried to let it go. But deep down, something had shifted.
About a week later, I got a call from Brandon’s mom.
She said, “We’re planning the engagement brunch at the yacht club. I need your guest list.”
I said, “Actually, I’m not sure the engagement is still on.”
Silence. Then she said, “Oh.” And hung up.
Brandon came home that night fuming. “You told my mom we might not be engaged anymore? What the hell, Ayla?”
I said, calmly, “I’m still thinking about it.”
We argued. Not yelling, but tight, bitter words. He said I was being dramatic. That his family has always had “a certain way” and I needed to stop being so sensitive. I said I deserved to be treated with respect.
He told me I was “lucky” to be marrying into their life. That most women would dream of it.
That was it for me. The mask had fully come off.
I packed a bag and stayed at my cousin Noura’s for a few days.
Noura doesn’t have much either. She teaches at a public school and lives in a one-bedroom with her cat, but she gave me the whole couch and made me lentil soup every night.
She didn’t ask a million questions. She just said, “If someone makes you feel small, they’re not your person.”
I cried a little that night. Quietly.
The next day, I called my friend Sanjana. She’s a wedding planner and she’d been helping with our venue. I told her the engagement was off. She didn’t sound surprised.
She said, “Girl… I saw the way he talked over you in meetings. I was rooting for you, but I’m proud of you for walking.”
It was weird. The moment I ended it, things became clearer. Like I’d been in a fog, making excuses for how “out of place” I felt instead of asking why I felt that way.
Brandon tried texting. Then calling. Then texting again. He didn’t say sorry. Just things like, “You’re being rash,” or “Let’s be adults about this.”
I didn’t answer.
Then—about two weeks later—I got a handwritten letter.
From his sister.
The one who’d snorted.
It was short. Just said, “You were too good for him. I knew it the minute you offered to help our grandma fix her wig after chemo. I was a brat at Family Day. I’m sorry.”
I read that line about the wig over and over. I’d almost forgotten. His grandma had been crying in the bathroom once about how she missed her old hair. I had scissors and tape in my purse—I always do—and I’d fixed her wig in five minutes. She hugged me so tight afterward.
I didn’t do it for thanks. But I’d assumed no one noticed.
That letter cracked something in me.
The following week, I donated the PS5 to a local shelter for teen boys. They were thrilled.
I went back to work full-time. My boss, Maritza, offered me extra shifts and even told me she was thinking of expanding.
“Maybe you should run the new location,” she said one day.
Me?
I hadn’t seen myself as anything but a worker. But she saw a leader.
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