I don’t know why I’m thinking about this now, it’s been… oh, decades. But I saw a young couple at the general store today, arguing over the price of some trinket for a wedding gift, and it just brought it all back. The shame, I suppose. The profound sense of inadequacy that gripped me then. We didn’t have much, you see, out here. Still don’t, really. Just the one paved road into town and everyone knowing your business before you even step foot in the feed store. My cousin Margaret was getting married. To a man from… well, from the city. A lawyer, they said. Very important. And Margaret, she always had a way about her, even as a child. A certain… luminescence. While I was always more of a shadow, I suppose. Anyway, her mother, my aunt Beatrice, she had this way of making you feel like your worth was directly tied to your material contributions. Not overtly, you understand. More of a subtle implication. A raised eyebrow at a less-than-sparkling casserole dish, a quiet observation about so-and-so’s new whatever. A masterful deployment of passive aggression, I recognize now. A true expert in emotional manipulation, really. Without ever saying a harsh word. So when it came time for the wedding, I was in a right pickle. My vacation fund – a whole two weeks’ wages from the cannery, mind you, saved up meticulously over a year – it wasn’t much. Enough for a modest trip to the coast, maybe. A few nights in a little motel with a view of the ocean. My only real escape, my only chance to breathe free of these mountains, these expectations. But Aunt Beatrice had been dropping hints, you see. About Margaret’s exquisite taste. About the silver patterns they were registering for at the fancy department store in the city. The one that required a special trip, a whole day on the bus. And how important it was to show… well, to show your devotion, I suppose. Your affection for family. I remember standing in that store, the air thick with perfume and the hushed whispers of women in hats. My little wad of cash felt like a child’s allowance. I looked at the coffee maker, the one that brewed those fancy cappuccinos – Margaret had mentioned it once, oh so casually, over Thanksgiving dinner. “Imagine having something like *that*,” she’d sighed, looking directly at me. It cost more than my entire vacation fund. MORE. But the alternative, the thought of showing up with something… less, something from the local hardware store, it filled me with a sickening dread. The look on Aunt Beatrice’s face. The quiet, sympathetic glances from the other cousins. The unspoken judgment. It would confirm every fear I had about myself, you see. That I wasn’t enough. That I was ungrateful. So I bought it. The coffee maker. My hands were shaking as I handed over the money, every single cent. The trip to the coast, the salty air, the quiet anonymity of a new place – it vanished in a puff of smoke. I remember walking home, the heavy box under my arm, the sun beating down on the dusty road. I didn't feel relief. Just a profound, aching emptiness. Like I’d traded a piece of my soul for a fancy kitchen appliance. And the wedding itself… well, it was lovely, of course. Margaret glowed. Aunt Beatrice smiled, her eyes lingering on the gift table, on my neatly wrapped package. “Oh, darling,” she’d purred, “You shouldn’t have.” But I knew, and she knew, that I *had* to. And I never did get to see the ocean again. Not really.