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.

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.