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.

“If you don’t want me there, I won’t come.”

“Good,” my mother said briskly, clapping her hands once. “I’m glad we could handle this like adults. Now, for the rest of us, I’m sending the final itinerary in the group chat. We managed to secure that property I told you about in Seabrook. The one right on the water.”

Bridget lit up. “The huge one with the double deck?”

“Yes,” my mother said with satisfaction. “The owner finally approved the booking. It was a hassle, but I pulled some strings. It’s going to be spectacular.”

The call ended.

The screen went black.

Ten seconds later, my phone buzzed.

I looked down and saw the notification: You have been removed from the group “Reunion 2026 Planning.”

And beneath it, because timing is everything and incompetence has its uses, there was the last preview from the chat before I’d been cut out.

A link.

A brochure preview.

A line of text from my mother: Here is the place. Everyone save the address.

And under it:

42 Dune Grass Lane, Seabrook Cove, Georgia.

I froze.