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.

It is ninety degrees in Seabrook Cove today, with the kind of humidity that makes the air feel less like something you breathe and more like something that clings.

I don’t mind the heat.

The heat keeps me alert. It keeps my jaw set and my mind sharp. It reminds me that I am very much here, very much real, even if the people currently hauling coolers and designer tote bags into my beach house spent the last month behaving as if I had been erased from the family registry.

Through the windshield, I watch the caravan arrive in stages.

Three large SUVs roll into the crushed-shell driveway of the three-story beach house that stands pale blue and self-possessed against the Atlantic backdrop, like it knows exactly what it is worth and refuses to apologize for any of it. The siding catches the sun in a muted wash of coastal color. The white trim flashes clean and expensive. The tall windows throw back the light. Beyond the house, sea oats bend in the breeze on the dunes, and farther still the ocean glitters in harsh sheets of silver-blue.

The place looks exclusive.

It looks expensive.