My sister announced in the family group chat that I was officially banned from the reunion—and made it clear no one was to tell me where it would be. I didn’t argue. I didn’t reply. I simply opened the location pin… and laughed so hard I had to cover my mouth.

It also looks, with exquisite accuracy, like exactly the kind of place my family thinks they deserve.

My mother, Linda, is the first one out of the lead SUV. Of course she is. She does not enter spaces. She arrives. She emerges in a flowing floral caftan and a straw hat wide enough to cast a theatrical shadow over her cheekbones, one hand already lifted in command before both feet are fully on the ground. Even from here, even through the windshield, even with the windows up, I know the rhythm of her voice as surely as I know my own pulse. She is issuing instructions before the rest of them have even straightened from their seats. Her fingers cut the air. Her bracelets flash. She points at the front steps, at the coolers, at the luggage, at my father, at my brother, at the universe.

She looks like a woman who believes she has secured a kingdom.

And perhaps the most perfect detail of all is that she is using the posture of ownership on property she does not own, for a booking she did not lawfully make, while the actual owner sits thirty yards away in silence and watches her play queen.

My phone vibrates in the cup holder. The sound is small but sharp in the thick stillness of the car. I glance down.

The screen lights up with a preview from the messaging group titled Family Reunion 2026.

I am no longer a participant in that group. Not officially. Not in the way that matters. Weeks ago, my sister removed me, with all the cold satisfaction of a nightclub hostess denying entry to a person who has never once wanted the music. But the app is glitchy, or Bridget is incompetent, or the universe occasionally enjoys irony. Whatever the reason, I still receive fragments. Not the thread itself. Not replies. Just previews. Broadcast debris. Sharp little pieces of a machine I’ve already been pushed out of.

The message is from Bridget.

Final reminder to everyone. Skyla is not to be given the address. She is not invited. If anyone shares the location with her, you are ruining the vibe for Mom. Let’s keep this drama-free.

I stare at the words until the screen dims.