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.

My father is dropping into the white linen sofa with a beer already in hand, the posture of a man relieved to have arrived someplace nice that he did nothing to secure. Bridget is opening kitchen cabinets, exclaiming over glassware. She lifts one of my crystal wine glasses toward the light and laughs to her fiancé Dylan, who stands leaning against my marble island looking impressed in the passive, decorative way men like him often look in spaces bought by other people’s labor. Kyle is staring at the television size, probably already imagining football and naps. My mother is moving through the frame like a cruise director, touching things, evaluating them, claiming them by commentary alone.

They look absurdly at home.

I close the app.

My heart is beating slowly. Steadily.

Years of therapy and years in cybersecurity taught me the same lesson in two different languages: the first surge of emotion is usually data, not direction. You do not move because you feel. You move because you know. And right now, what I know is that timing matters.

I glance at the clock again.

3:22 p.m.

Twenty minutes.

Perfect.

I pick up my phone and dial the number saved as Tidemark Management – Emergency Line.