I finally bought my dream house and invited my family to come see it. No one showed up. Later that night, my dad texted, “We need to talk about the house.” By then, something inside me had already shifted.

Seven o’clock came. Seven-fifteen. I told myself they were probably in the car arguing about directions, which was a standard feature of any family outing involving my father driving and my mother navigating. Seven-thirty. I sent a message to the group chat saying dinner was ready whenever they arrived. Seven-forty-five. The candles were burning down. The mashed potatoes were losing their heat. The sunflowers in the centerpiece had developed the slight droop flowers get when they have been standing too long in a room that expected witnesses. I stood at the window and looked at the empty street and felt the specific quality of anticipation curdling into something else.

At eight-fifteen my phone pinged. I picked it up faster than I meant to.

It was a message from my mother in the group chat.

Sorry, something came up. Busy tonight.

No follow-up from Kevin. No call from my father. Just those five words from my mother, speaking for all three of them with the casual finality of someone canceling coffee, delivered on the biggest night I had asked them to show up for in ten years of asking them to show up for very little.