That night I barely slept. When I did drift off, I had one of those absurd dreams stress produces—not a symbolic dream, not something useful, just me at sixteen trying to order coffee at the shop where I used to work while my mother stood behind the register counting money I couldn’t touch.
The next morning, the first thing I saw was a text from Olivia.
Brunch Sunday? Mom says family meeting.
I stared at the screen and felt something inside me harden further.
Mom says.
Even at twenty-three, even with a horse and an apartment she “split” with a man who somehow never paid enough, Olivia still moved through family like a favored courier. Information reached her differently. Softer. Earlier. Through tones designed to prepare her emotionally before reality arrived.
I typed back: Yes. I’ll be there.
Then I went to work.