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.

Tomorrow I’ll clean. Tomorrow I’ll change every access credential connected to the property. Tomorrow I’ll call my attorney, review liability, push Tidemark until I get a full paper trail explaining exactly how my mother managed to impersonate her way into a stay she never had the right to book.

But not tonight.

Tonight I walk through the house slowly, reclaiming it room by room.

The kitchen first.

I run my fingertips over the marble island and think about the day it was installed, how I stood right here in dusty jeans while two exhausted men aligned the slab and one of them said, “You sure you want this much surface?” as though abundance had to be defended. I said yes, because I wanted room to cook without rushing and because women are allowed to take up horizontal space too.

Then the living room.

I straighten the throw pillow Bridget crushed under her arm when she perched there filming the ocean. I close the cabinet where Kyle rooted around for glasses. I pick up the bottle of white wine my mother opened and place it in the fridge. Not because I want to save it. Because order is calming.

Then the stairs.