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.

Dylan trying to calculate whether involvement is worth it.

My mother, in my house, on my deck, telling me I am unwelcome.

Then I say, very evenly, “Your vacation rental.”

The silence tightens.

“That’s interesting,” I continue. “Because I own this house.”

Nothing.

Not soundless in the absolute sense. The waves are still moving. Wind still touches the dune grass. A gull cries somewhere overhead. But between the people on that deck there is an immediate and total vacuum, the kind that appears when reality changes shape too fast for pride to adjust.

Bridget lets out a brittle laugh.

“What are you talking about?”

I open the folder. Remove the deed. Hold it up.

“This is the deed to 42 Dune Grass Lane, Seabrook Cove, Georgia. The property is held under Seaglass Harbor Holdings LLC. That is my company. I am the sole owner. I purchased this house two years ago. I renovated it. And every single one of you is trespassing.”

My mother goes pale in a way I have never seen before. Linda is not a woman who blushes or fades easily. She is usually all color and force. But this strips her.

“That’s impossible,” she says. “I spoke to the property manager. They gave me the code. They confirmed the booking.”

“You spoke to a maintenance company that services the property for me,” I say. “They do not have authority to rent this home. They never did. Whether someone made a mistake or you misrepresented your right to be here, the result is the same. You do not have permission to occupy this property.”

My father stands fully now.

“Skyla, sweetheart,” he says, lifting both hands slightly, already moving toward conciliatory uselessness. “There must be some misunderstanding. We can figure this out.”

There are few phrases more enraging than we can figure this out when spoken by someone who stood silent while you were being pushed out.

“There is no misunderstanding, Dad,” I say. “You all made yourselves very clear. I was not invited. I was removed from the group chat. You were told not to give me the address. And yet here you are. In my house. Drinking my wine. Using my things. Celebrating in the one place I built for myself because I knew exactly what would happen if any of you ever found out it existed.”

Bridget’s face flushes bright.

“You did this on purpose,” she snaps. “You set us up.”

I look at her.