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.

Banking changes. Access denied. Calls unanswered. Invitations declined without explanation. The slow starving of a system that fed on your compliance.

By late afternoon, I drive into town for groceries.

Not because I need much. Because I want the normalcy of it. The basket, the produce section, the cashier asking whether I found everything okay. The quiet radicalism of buying food for one in a place no one associates with you. I pick up shrimp, lemons, herbs, a loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, olives, sparkling water, cleaning cloths, and fresh flowers from a stand outside because the house deserves flowers after yesterday.

At checkout, the teenage cashier says, “You staying out on the beach?” and I hear myself say, “I own a place on Dune Grass,” with no instinct to downplay it. The sentence lands strangely in my own ears. Not boastful. Just true.

“Nice,” she says, scanning the lemons. “Those houses are amazing.”

“Yes,” I say. “They are.”

Back at the house, I cook with the doors open.

Garlic in olive oil.

Shrimp with lemon and red pepper.

Bread warmed in the oven.