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.

“What the hell?” she says, already offended. “What are you doing here?”

I don’t answer.

I keep walking.

I climb the stairs to the main deck slowly, not because I’m trying to dramatize it, but because I have waited too long for this moment to rush through it now. Each step feels deliberate. Each one sounds out the end of a certain kind of silence.

By the time I reach the top, my mother has emerged from the house holding a glass of white wine. Her face runs through several emotions so quickly they nearly overlap: confusion, irritation, disbelief, then something much more interesting—fear.

“Skyla,” she says sharply. “You need to leave. Right now. You are not welcome here. This is our vacation rental.”

I stop.

I look at all of them.

My father inside, half-standing now, uncertain whether to approach or disappear.

Kyle with beer in hand, looking like someone shoved him into a scene halfway through without explanation.

Bridget furious already because performance requires an audience and I have arrived to seize the lighting.

Dylan trying to calculate whether involvement is worth it.

My mother, in my house, on my deck, telling me I am unwelcome.

Then I say, very evenly, “Your vacation rental.”