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.

Across the screen, Bridget took a sip of wine and leaned closer to her camera like she could smell blood through Wi-Fi.

“Look, Skye,” she said. “It’s not a huge deal. Mom just thinks—and honestly we all think—it might be better if you skip this one. You never actually seem to enjoy these trips. You sit there judging everyone and sucking up the energy. It’s a buzzkill.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then I heard myself say, “This isn’t about my attitude, is it? This is about the loan.”

No one answered immediately, which was answer enough.

Two weeks earlier, Bridget had called with what she described as an incredible opportunity. She wanted to launch a “curated lifestyle brand,” by which she meant a website selling candles, tote bags, journals, and vaguely inspirational domestic objects at luxury markups under some airy name like Harbor & Honey or Soft Atlas. She had mood boards. Fonts. Brand language. A photographer “lined up.” What she did not have was credit, capital, or a business plan with numbers sturdy enough to survive daylight.

She wanted me to co-sign a fifty-thousand-dollar business loan.

I said no.