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.

I look back toward the house. Bridget has gotten out of the second SUV. She is already filming. Of course she is already filming. One hand holds her phone at the perfect angle while the other pushes her hair off her shoulder in that falsely casual gesture people practice in mirrors. She spins slowly, capturing the ocean, the dune grass, the front elevation of the house, the sunlight hitting the deck railings. She is framing a narrative. She always is.

Look at us.

Look at the life we deserve.

Look at what the universe places in our hands when we are loved enough.

I’ve seen her social media before, though I muted her months ago for the sake of my blood pressure. In her world, nothing is simply lived. Everything is staged into evidence. Meals become abundance. Rentals become lifestyle. Other people’s money becomes aesthetic instinct. She will post this house by sunset with a caption about gratitude, family, and blessed memories in the making. She will angle the camera so the floors show. She will linger on the kitchen island. She will probably use the phrase healing energy at some point.

The thought almost makes me laugh.

They’re at the front door now.